Pandas are an interesting lot
I had a friend who was a panda once.
He had a penchant for Mozart
and a bad attitude on Sundays.
I guess the scars of one's youth will cling
like red welted cobwebs to ones face
on any given day when our defenses are down
and our happy thoughts have been misplaced
and one's hat has a crease in it
and can't be worn outside among respectable people.
There are days when the respectable people
are awfully important to a man,
even when that man is a panda.
Days when your socks don't match,
And your hair won't behave itself.
Days when dreaming of mares and oats,
and does and oats and little lambs and ivy,
only make you homesick for bamboo forests,
brilliant red in the autumn
Sleeping in the sun dappled remains
of the lives we could have lived.
That panda was an odd Duck.
Covered himself in promises
he never really expected anyone to keep.
But he kept them.
Pleated them into ideals,
the perfect people
he knew his friends longed to be.
Oh Panda. How beautiful we must seem to you
through all these layers of draped ambition
dropped along the way.
Luckily there was someone there
to pick them up
to listen to Mozart
to remember our good intentions
while we remember the paths they took us down.
Created: Dec 03, 2010jstandifird Document Media