a mystery is solved every 4 minutes,
only to be confronted by another conundrum
every 3 seconds,
until the unknown overtakes the known,
and all i’m left with is is a dowsing rod covered
in peanut butter
after spending an entire afternoon
looking for the most perfect pb&j sandwich
out in the wild,
though it seems like they’ve all gone extinct
the doors lock, slammed into place,
silence filling the space,
whispered words whistle through,
as a conversation takes place
inside the prisoner’s head, wondering dread,
closing in, every moment examined with careful precision
that led to this moment
of imprisonment,
because there’s time to think it through,
though the smell of the jail cells
distract him to no end,
like burning rubber mixed with rancid lemon juice
used to clean up cow manure
tracked through the halls of the jailhouse,
the prisoner wonders if he’ll start singing the blues,
but realizes he doesn’t know much about music,
so he’ll forego the impulse
paint by numbers,
then forget where the numbers go,
and start painting wildly,
or not at all,
maybe call it abstract,
thoughtful, pensive, or some other such
cerebral title to make it seem
like it was all intentional,
then walk away,
maybe sell it, maybe don’t,
but never think about that one piece of artwork
you have hanging or laying away
some far off place,
in the back of the closet,
or up front in some schmuck’s living room,
no matter where the painting hangs,
it can’t seem to count,
since the numbers fled away
Fred Aiken Writing 