even the odd are familiar when met again
When I met the metal monkey, slouched in a field of shallow wheat, I knew from that moment that I was homeless.
Whatever I had known could hardly accommodate this statue among wizened fescue. I pressed my pink hat to my head, looking up.
The longer I looked, the more familiar it became. Chains and steam, hands of pliers. Daddy may have built it in the garage.
Metal monkey was no scarecrow. Or is it though? There were no birds around us. Nothing but wheat and haze, trees and me.
I said hello. It stopped steaming. Taking to kneeling, four legs on golden ground, it bowed. Was I supposed to board somehow?
Then it came to me: I built this being. It is too late or I’m too soon, but it knows my name and it came because we are there again.
Will we ever get it right? Have no need for beacons or sentries against those who infest, sowing the seeds of lies as weeds.
I remember, and still I wish I could colour the sentry. Make it smile in purple crayon because we are where it begins again.
