Today is the day we march
but not walking.
To work, we march
with lite lunches
in brown bags.
To 7-11, we march
in our minds.
To the cliff, we march
to throw our blockheads
upon the rocks.
To the futon,
the animal hospital,
to the tailor for alterations,
the plastic surgeon for suggestions,
the dancehall to learn
to get it right
Mr. Symmetry likes robin’s eggs and Coke cans,
not yuletide decorations or glossy magazines.
Mr. Symmetry likes carbon-14 and coffee filters,
not nursery rhymes or grocery store clerks.
Mr. Symmetry only eats manicotti and waffle cones,
never lamb chops or crushed red pepper.
If, on the way to work, you see Mr. Symmetry
walking in the rain, pull to the curb and whistle.
If you sit down, on a park bench, let’s say,
with Mr. Symmetry, he will take your hand in his.
If Mr. Symmetry asks you about your bad dream,
tell him you can’t even remember your own name.
(Mr. Symmetry, of course, has read Freud, loves
his spectacular face, those repressed lenses.)
Don’t bother listening when Mr. Symmetry
tells you your life is half over—he’s half-baked.
Mr. Symmetry won’t tell you he’s sorry, but he’ll
leave a saucer of milk on your doorstep one night.
The sounds of his footsteps on the gravel drive
will be written on a chalkboard two hundred times.