Something About Oatmeal

My fortunes drop from my hands with despair. Pearls that plop on the sand are the rest of me that's left to bare. Juggling gorillas and dinosaur tea parties swirl in discordant dance, While my aimless mind presses spring in Hamburg 'gainst a wintry France. All lives re-awake each morning with a choice to laugh or cry, Since there is no door for the key you hold, no pan for the egg to fry. So with oatmeal in your hands you run from house to house, "Is this sad or is this funny?" You add you use to be a mouse. And when even the flag of writing is held against a vacant wind You meet metal with wood and not as wood and your heart you feel has sinned, For not to laugh at the madness of sternness is to lose our only magic power. To fall from branches that were never there is to star in the saddest movie of the hour. Grieve not if your gift seems little now where once you shot rockets. Remember: you were once a mouse, and now your have oatmeal in your pockets.