A Philosopher's Failings by Brooke Fox

 

I sit here sipping my tea gradually,

But beneath the quarter line I stop,

Because I am distracted by the most prominent up-and-down movements,

And startling buck-toothed dance that

You could ever imagine.

The fist presses into his brown cheek,

As he pats his head constantly,

The expression hanging down in a dazzling display,

Beneath this unlikely umbrella,

Distasteful grimace,

And, aye me, I can’t ignore

The gaggling girls and this man,

Who can’t seem to make a choice-

Should he make a temple with his hands,

Scratch his head, or grimace madly at the page?

 

 

Sir, it certainly is not my fault,

If you can’t understand the print,

And in fact I

Think that it is quite rude of you to

Interfere with my story,

With your gangly lope crisscrossing over the floor,

And your insecure mannerisms-

That is if your mother ever taught you any-

 

Though you seem to find me quite interesting-

Is this why you attempt to catch my eye?

Is my work this much more interesting than yours is?

Truly I’m sorry, but you, sir,

Are an inconsiderate gentleman I should certainly say,

To beleaguer me as a fly would,

And your class is sorely lacking,

While you scratch your head and itch and pine,

For someplace better,

Than that which you are reading-

Should I buy you some shampoo?

Or perhaps you need a lesson in restraint,

Or perhaps someone should merely

Teach you how to stay still and serene-

Quiet and still!

 

Because you have been checking your phone,

Every one or two minutes,

Then glancing at me with a hangdog look

I don’t think that my wish will ever be answered,

Because first, sir, it seems

That you would need to understand the term “illusion,”

And since all of your world seems to be illusory,

Time crawls for you, like a slow turtle.

When in your mind thirty minutes has passed,

And in your mind you read my work,

Rather than your own philosophy-

And sir, I can assure you,

That it truly is not becoming.

 

So you see, until you learn the art of the imagination,

My wish will be a forgotten whisper,

Sailing through the air,

And landing directly upon your open book,

Which has not been turned

A page since I’ve watched you,

Because your philosophy takes up my-

Well, anything really that I have ever hoped for!

Because I can only sit by and watch,

While you imagine yourself a philosopher,

Of all our life-

Or leastways that within this shop,

And I can assure you,

That my wish for you to leave,

Has landed flatly on the unturned page,

While you stay locked in your illusion-

 

For you, sir, I can assure you, that you are no philosopher . . .