A Penny for Your Thoughts

"A penny for your thoughts,"
He said, leaning into that
Intimate space across the table.

"I--" she started, thinking
This one really expected
Her intelligent response.

"What I meant," he corrected,
Looking her in the eye,
"Is I want to purchase your thoughts."

"Whaaat?" She countered,
Confused by his icy stare
(Had she misread him after all?)

"I want to buy your thoughts,"
He said again, nonchalantly,
"All of them."

"All of them?" she repeated,
Attempting to process this
Turn of table event.

"Yes, of course, all of them,"
He said, "For a penny."
As if that were more than enough.

"I don't know who you think you are,
Or what right you have to ask,
But there is no way in hell--"

"Look," he said, put out with her
Objection, "I'm paying more than
The asking price for them all.

"What need have you of them?"
He pushed an envelope forward.
"Here, two pennies then.

"You really can't do better than that,"
He said. "I've heard enough of yours
To know there'd be no market."

She stared at the envelope;
Wondering when the price
Of a person's thought was so--

"I will not sell out." She said.
"You will," He countered,
"To me or someone else

"Only they may not pay
Such a high price
For your meager thoughts."

"You cannot buy my thoughts,"
She said. "You cannot have them."
And she slid the envelope forward.

"Fine," he said, standing up.
"Your loss, my dear."
He threw a bill on the table.

She stared at his retreating form,
Tore into the abandoned envelope
And gripped tightly two dull pennies.

Caution: Falling Boulder!

By definition, detached--
Feeling no longer a part
Of what had held it before,
Nothing binding it anymore,
Only momentary incidents
Of impact these days.

A falling boulder.

Some would call this Free Fall
A cosmic inspiration of Hope;
Misguidedly waving as the weighty
Mass succumbs to Gravity.
There is only a hard surface
Awaiting to Break the Fall.

Someone needs to warn them.

Far below, they idealistically
Celebrate what they deem to be
An intellectual phenomenon.
A band plays, someone blows a
Trump and another cries in glee.
Fair maidens dance in Time.

But this rock is worn.

They cannot see the deep crevices
Or the scars of impacts made long ago;
They cannot imagine the density
Of this rock which has fallen,
Finally, after long years of foggy
Contemplations on a mountain top.

This rock is large.

She's no pebble, this one;
Rather a planet of swirling,
Unnamed disappointments;
There is no combination of words
To describe what lies within
Her damaged surface.

Alas, the hard earth at last.


Boulder: A detached and rounded or worn rock, especially a large one (dictionary.com)