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Two squirrel play
a fun little game of cat and mouse.
Both scurrying up the tree,
diving face first from branch to branch.
Like little cannons they shoot
back and forth between tree limbs.
One wagging it’s tail, the other
feigning ignorance, like two lovers
they quarrel, never knowing really
who’s cat, and who’s mouse.
Or what started all this in the first place.
Unintentionally rude.
Little disheartened sighs.
Incapable of speech.
And worrisome.
Fearful of what, exactly, is unknown.
Trying not to incite confusion.
Attempts not to quarrel only create greater tension.
Anxiety.
Disdain.
We do not want, but accept these things.
In silence,
there is no argument but a stalemate.
Like a fruitless game of chess.
On egg shells,
we walk,
stiff kneed,
toes clenched,
trying not to crumble.
Trying desperately to surrender.
Our sympathy and concern,
marred by our inability to grasp the others discontent.
We slowly close our eyes.
And wake in the morning,
anew.
Words Of An Average White Male 