The Golden Days

There were times, perhaps in the middle of the day, when she felt so strongly about the world, About life, About children starving in remote faraway places. She’d cry. Weep for those who needed to be wept for. Pray for those who needed prayers. And on clear cloudless days she’d find her mind thick with worry, and her eyes salted with tears over things she could not control. The silver spoon thrusted into her mouth at a tender impressionable age, did little to soothe her, although it still clung to the lapels of her ironed oxford shirts, refusing to be forgotten. So she carved it out of her - that little piece of sterling silver, that threatened to symbolize – no immobilize her. She retched it from her body Pealed it off her skin Erased it from her memory and Indignantly gave it back to the providers who had provided it with the good grace of their long dead providers. She didn’t need provisions – she caterwauled. She wanted to be like them. The one’s who suffer, as Jesus did in the olden days. The golden days. She ate very little – like a bird they would say. A hatchling, letting the freshly excavated worms her mother brought her to eat, wither in the dust – to be of use to no one. She sat in the confines Of a tower-like place, Weeping, And Crying, And Caring. Until she grew tired, And very very bored. Her trip to Africa was indefinitely placed on hold, Her Kleenex’s were put into storage, Her tears dried And that silver spoon – the one her providers had provided with the good grace of the old providers – moved out of her savings (where she kept most things she grew tired of) and into her delicately upturned mouth where it belonged, until she went through another bout of wanting to save the world but never daring to try.