Stream 4

A tapioca polar bear approached me Easter morn
and told me I had leverage within this golden arch.

I took the time to recognize that polar bears can’t talk,
but this one shrugged and passed me by, aware that I would trail.

So he and I approached a cave, uncommon in that place.
He bade me: “sit and light a fire, your thumbs are magical”.

I laughed and got some kindling out, but lit the tinder first.
He went into a hiding place and found his finest catch.

We ate like kings; I let him have the lion’s share of fish.
“My stomach’s smaller than my hands, and not as magical.”

NaPoWriMo: Day 4

Stalling media circuses smell like grandiose gestures made for clowning, not
necessarily a healthy way to spend your last fifty cents. Though most agree
with those policies, I figure one fish against the current can’t do much,
unless it plugs itself into the wrong end of the influential vacuum, cutting
off its own air supply to free all its kind from a straight march forward
through nothingness–they can veer, spin and smack fins at the novelty of
free motion. The preconceived pathway vanishes before their eyes, and to
their amazement, they may putter along in any old direction, even the one
from which they came! The more sentimental creatures return to the scene
of the crime, their once vital friend limp, head still serving as a cork–
precedent and history, its friends give thanks and praise, as is proper.

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