Whimsical on a cold Monday
Solomon carried a wooden box
Down to the gap in Gibbens Park
And filled it with uncertainty
Until its seams were bulging dark and tossed it down;
. . . . Forsaking being wrong.
This couldn’t be wrong
As, since that day, He’s had the perfect answers down
And lives inside the outside of the box
And by this very action crowned with coronet of certainty;
. . . . That day, in Gibbens Park.
A girl was watching in the park—
Still capable of being wrong
But filled with errant certainty.
Her thoughts and plans were wrong that day;
Her morals, somewhat scanty; she made herself a different box
. . . . And no guilt dressed her down.
She made a bed of eiderdown
And silks and satins in the park
She sent him through the letter box
A promise stark, a promise wrong,
A promise locked his heart that day
. . . . His chains were certainty.
He blamed her, from that certainty,
For how his morals canted down,
And nothing was his fault that day,
And blossoms drowned the silks and park
And played they and it was not wrong;
Then she took needles from her box—
She took three needles from the box
And she told him his new certainty
The fear that gripped him was not wrong.
She told him what was up was down.
And he believed her, fierce and strong, in Gibbens Park;
In Gibbens Park, that day.
They fell from the park to the stars that day;
So up must be down, post the game they played. The box
Kept the chance he was wrong away; and locked truth to his certainty.