Marcus Wicker
Mostly what I do is exercise my lungs
in praise of everything:
Meryl Streep movies. Porcelain
roosters. Daisies. Fuchsia teddy bears
gifted to better halves at carnivals.
Every bike trail and alleyway. Every
single road I walk is lined with the signage
of joy. And I’m not exactly complaining
but imagine being this way full time.
Compare it to staring at the sun too long—
What happens after. Goldenrod grid
viewpoint. World as scatter plot.
My punch clock ticks from the second
I wake and it’s hard to tell the difference
between shifts. Think pleasure as computer
generated dots. Palm trees like pinstripes.
Think I’m crazy if you want
but the world actually moves me maybe
once every year. Last night it happened
at a party, when Jackie told a story
about a kid who couldn’t tie her shoes.
Mornings at the tired bus stop. Try
after try, she’d loop and swoop her heart out—
folding in front of peers.
But before first bell in the bathroom stall.
Or during gym in a low traffic corner
her best friend Kim fashioned her laces
into elegant bows. She did this
with a smile. For years. Imagine
an act selfless as ducking down.
As bending at the knee, away from a crowd.
Some of what I do requires overwatering
crops in favor of a happy, local clientele.
My job is important, and I like it and all.
But I love that Jackie’s story was told
in first person. Think genuflection
with no motive other than praise.
Think of Kim and Jackie making my job
easy but hard. Picture Jackie carefully
sliding off white Keds
to savor Kim’s craftsmanship. Envision
those loops. Indefinitely intact.
Now, think of what makes you happy.
Get back to me. We’ll do lunch.