The elephant in the room Is tired of being a metaphor. He is tired of standing in for unpleasant, awkward things. He is tired of being ignored - Of being invisible. He wants to do the same things All elephants like to do Like painting his toenails red; Hiding in apple trees; Jumping on ants. If he could, he would pack his trunk And cram himself into the backseat of a Volkswagen beetle With a couple of his friends. Maybe head down the ocean For a weekend. But he knows he can't. Because however he got into our room The door isn't big enough For him to get out. He could just smash through But that would be pretty awkward and uncomfortable for everyone. He hates being awkward.
Pachydermal memories, sticky adhesions Loosening the reigns of thoughtful ride Outsourced skills seeping the membranes In an amniotic suspension The quest lays in retaining Not to drain, yet keep momentum As a leak at the bottom of the ocean The strain refills Full-filling circulation
The gentleman swims in the crowd Of his metropolitan pathways Imbibing, desirous affections Afflicting self response modes I shall surely like to be there But the train ceases to brake
Or abide. The subway scatters island thoughts Motioning exward, refusal to mesh
Though in mirth we blend Against the parent in congress with the goal Aligned with their strife He watch, the office traffic’s Yellow bleeding before all signal Yet pushes forward pileups His symptoms pertain; uneasy persisting exquisite