It isn’t a sidecar. Not at all a fun adventure with wind and sharp turns and hanging on for dear life. No, this is real. It is a bump that formed and now has become a part of me. I haven’t named it, even though I’ve grown used to it being here. We tend to go everywhere together, this bump and I.
The Doctors seem jealous. They all want to take it away, separate us from each other. Is that cruel or what?
What would a pickle be without its bumps? Or a log? Have they no creativity? Can they not see past the end of their own scalpel? Where would mushrooms be without their stems and pieces? Or olives without their pits?
It seems only right that I walk through this world gathering the thistles that cling to my socks, for is that not where they belong? Just as the ship’s hull accumulates slime and the rutter seaweed, so does the Captain smell as the fish.
It is all but
impossible to pass through an arcade without hearing the sound of pocket change
leaving small hands. It is what Life is,
lumps and all.
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