A Poem Most Accurately Called Drops
I've got a smile on my face, but my heart has been heavy.
It is generally unclear where I must go from here.
Murder, playing thanks to John Lee Hooker.
There are no words, because we don't need them.
The music tells the story, the title sets the stage.
The drops, it started with the drops of water.
And is it so that I forgot to call my father?
That can wait he will be here soon.
What a beautiful day, clear blue skies.
Wait, then what about the drops?
Why are they dropping and not stopping?
There is wind, maybe carrying from China?
Maybe Africa, I don't know the patterns.
Oh, must be China, the wind takes me to Africa not home.
I will soon be traveling to a place with no rain
a place with no fame, a place with no brain.
That's what they tell you, but it's a prejudiced view.
There will be no drops there, just dry fingers.
But what about here? Is it I have had too much beer?
No beer, just drops, coming from an empty sky.
Oh, tell me it isn't true, that with an empty sky I must cry?
It's not true, my eyes are dry, I still smile.
The drops are not tears, no salt just drops.
Have you ever tasted your tears? There is a good reason not to.
They taste bad, taste like the sea, not a bit like me.
Makes sense, seeing how we will all return there in time.
So here I sit, with mystery drops from a clear sky
dropping on my fingertips and not from my eye.
This beautiful day, next to a fountain, soul climbing a mountain.
Idiot! You are by the fountain, not the mountain.
Open your eyes and put your mind to rest
The drops splash from the fountain and not the bird's nest.
This poem was written outside the Christian Science Center in Boston, MA by Scott Stephen Smith
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