While Butler is sweating and thinking hard of an answer to Bagman’s theory that everyone wants to be understood at their core, I will take this opportunity to post an old poem that is somewhat related. Who am I, you might ask? Or you might not. In either case, I am their benefactor, the walking, talking temporary protoplasm that contains these argumentative trains of thought. But that is another story and here is the poem:
Passion and Sensibility
Passion never enters a sensible life
like a file folder slipping smoothly
into a patent leather briefcase.
It erupts from the desk like red dye
flooding through neatly stacked bills
and coffee coming out the nose.
You never vaguely notice passion
sitting primly beside you in the car
checking the grocery store receipts.
She runs the stop light at ninety
and T-bones you, plastering lipstick
all down your front and running off
with your pants.
Passion doesn’t come with resumes,
doesn’t set appointments for interviews.
It shows up at the fish market unannounced
and says “follow me” and you’ve got five seconds
to crucify your whole life or keep slicing salmon steaks.
But sensibility always returns with reinforcements
no more the list of bland equations
that failed it the first time.
Sensibility regroups and counterattacks
with sirens, lawyers, and screaming wives,
affidavits, terminations, rehab programs, family talks
and more damn diseases than you knew existed.
Sometimes sensibility seems to take forever,
while passion rollerblades naked in traffic,
but it recognizes no statute of limitations
and after the closing arguments echo away
with subtle vengeance,
it slips back into the creases in your pants
as smoothly as a coffin lowered