Yesterday morning, through the gray and damp ether of a Monday morning, I stumbled upon a grossly accurate metaphor for America. True Patriots will surely agree with this, though if you have anything less than the righteous notion of what this country can be in your blood, you will surely be offended.
While walking Django I veered from my usual course in search of what little adventure could be found at six a.m. Passing an old cape or raised ranch, through the fog and fumes of the early commuter traffic which Jenny is aggressively and angrily a part of, I saw the stump of a diseased old maple that had been removed some years ago. On it was a small chimney of bricks placed to hold a small, weather-beaten and sun-bleached flag which stood no higher than four feet tall. Haphazardly placed against the front side of the stump was, and still in it's original wrapper and in perfect condition, a string cheese. It's probably still there, I'll have to check...
So that's it - we have been reduced to a Monday morning suburban string cheese cast upon the lawn of another generation's faded dream. How did we end up here? More importantly, how does dairy end up on the lawn? Was it all just a coincidence, or something more?
No comments:
Post a Comment