Putt-Putt Potential

Two lines, drawn by mortal hand

drawn on a globe must perforce

intersect. No careful ink or

edge of steel can avoid this

casual truth, the imperfect

always converges.

 

So it was, and so it will be on

the street of elms, the street of

circumstance. Two forces,

winds of a bifurcate purpose

did meet in a way most spectacular

and strange.

 

A frog, a simple amphibian, making

its way from pond to leaf, unaware

and gullet full of river-minnow.

And a car, a humming mountain

of steel and motion.

 

In a pond, most plain

on the edge of a green field, filled o’er

with garish faces and spinning wheels,

and the quiet clink of metal against

white balls, slapping their way

down their predestined course.

 

The car jumped the curve, as the

frog jumped the leaf.

A collision most strange, even

though unremarked by most.

 

For the frog did not die, yet was spun

into the heavens by a black wheel

and came to rest on the gleaming

crimson hood of the car

goggle-eye staring into blank stare

of its pilot.

 

The frog and the man did not exchange

names, or titles or the

memories of the quiet little lives.

 

They both hopped away,  thankful

for their lives

and hopeful that their lines

would never again

intersect.

 

[Story on Demand for Jackie Jones. This is a weird one.]

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