To bed, not for dreaming but for reading
But the authors words become misleading,
As soon as they meet ear and mind
My brain seems to leave them all behind.
And in the morning I find instead
Tumbled words at the bottom of my bed.
The coffee pot of Italian blend
(My morning caffeinated friend)
And I slowly open up my mail
and trace the letters like they were braille.
But the words can be read no more,
And fall into a puddle on my floor.
I squeeze into the daily grind
And blog to leave my cares behind.
I am perplexed, understandably
At glancing to my clock to see
It is bereft of ones and twos.
Then I find the numbers in my shoes.
What if words were not mine as read,
But chose to go out and dine instead?
In town at a ritzy, swank affair,
Where gossip of “p”‘s and “q”‘s would fill the air,
Where table plans say “i” must sit before “e”,
(unless he’s unusually following “c”)?
Would we panic at getting from “a” to “b”
If “a” and “b” have gone erroneously?
If the city is read, a nameless tube station,
Would not get lost in wordless translation
You’d count the stops – then walk the town
And find it’s nice that things aren’t written down.
If familiar with our streets and squares,
Geography cannot take us unawares.
If a bus had no name, in any event,
Why not get on the thing and see where it went?
No words around for the town hall clerk.
No signs to tell us where we can’t park.
And no street names in our faithful “A-Z”
But only taste and smells and sights instead.
Please return to The London Bluebird if you enjoyed this. This blog is updated every Thursday.