7.13.18 – Beat-boxed
We kept looking for the whale wins, imagining they were just outside our strategic defeats. I had toggled to enduring long before, questioning even if I still knew how to have steady hands. You called me a calm surgeon, but I was certain I committed treason to that Hippocratic Oath every time I opened my mouth. We could protest the whereabouts of our losses without needing to lance the grey in advance of overheating, entropy from envy would have been enough to cool us down despite the dissonance of being misdirected on our achievements from such vistas.
I was off hustling wheelbarrows with suspicious loads. I had a bowlful of compliments to deliver for the inventor of that sturdy circle and it might have outpaced the avarice for which I was currently aiming; finding respect for the forbearers might have just barely overridden bad business practices. I’d used my words like a seven-year salesman, inking vows just so victory could come calmly over the threshold, no carrying needed. But it made for a poor partner to the long war unwinding between bitter allies and fierce frenemies. Competitors were crashing about the fete and acting like all were invited to entrench.
Maybe we were meant to hang between, finding slack and slouch when other fronts were set upon outside our own. Bullet dodging didn’t seem to be an approachable skill but often we acted like it was a necessary plan. I might have caught more metal than I knew what to do with but at least most of those scars didn’t stick around too long. We had the memories, but there were scores to settle alongside that past that wouldn’t make all feel welcome. You would have called it a tragedy, and maybe most would as well, but the hard heart of it was that it was simply just another tricky spot we stepped over while hoping to avoid the next.