ALL MINDS ARE
ALL THE SAME
The red convertible went spinning by in a funnel-made
muddle of its own transition : speed, sound, and pride.
'Not everyone can drive one of these,' it seemed to say.
Not that I cared. My straw-hat represented my heart, a
hayseed sitting on a bale. I turned to my Uncle, and asked,
'Uncle Bren, what does it mean when someone gets cheated?'
I should have known he would never answer. He said something
about what time was lunch and what did my mother say to do.
An answer as long as a geezer's last breath, I figured.
Probably it's like that when you're a kid : nothing stands, and not
much makes sense, adults seem to be troubled, confusion rules,
and the only thing really sure is the rain when it's falling, or that
sandwich in your hands - which you probably didn't really want
anyway. Another tired afternoon, and the sun beating down.
I tried inflections, I tried changing my voice, I tried speaking in
some other language. Personal stuff no one else could understand.
No good, they all just got madder than a coon chased by a dog.
Seems like everything's the same when you're bored, all minds
are all alike. Sometimes I just wished I was already dead.