MASONRY by Tom Lyford
“You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink… BUT... you can make him wish he did” –Miss L.
“What we have here… is a failure to communicate…” – Captain, Road Prison 36, Cool Hand Luke
I was no kindergarten Cool Hand Luke, landing in
Miss Lipton’s lockdown, back in the fountain pen/
inkwell days of ’51… back when you were required
practically by law to publicly broadcast your
applications of intent from the pillory of shame:
“May I go to the ‘basement’ please? It’s... a #2.”
Back when one of us got thirsty, why, we must all be thirsty
and lineup like soldiers at the fountain… back when daydreamers,
fidgeters, and other felons who hadn’t gotten their minds right yet
knew the drill: hands out, palms up, and… the slap of the ruler…
I just cried most days— like that day: coming to with astart at my desk
in a bad Twilight-Zone episode: all the other seats empty… and
the rest of our little robots standing obediently in Lipton’s lock-step
assembly-line (my absence there a flaming neon sore thumb) and me
desperately slithering away from my seat, tip-toeing unnoticed to the
tail end and breathing the reprieved man’s sigh of relief— only to
discover (Jeezum Crow!!!) that every last man-Jack &-Jill is clutching
the prescribed regulation-size scrap of paper egregiously missingfrom
my own little fist! But now… too late!!! Caught in the Crosshairs of
Doom, the line moving forward, and me, a little lumber log riding
THE CONVEYOR BELT OF DEATH to the buzz-sawto stand alone and
vulnerable in Judgement before the all-seeing... all-powerful…
MRS. LIPTON
manning her own Saint Peter’s Gate…
and wielding her tongue-depressor like a scepter,
doling out dollops of white flour paste from her
TWO-GALLON MAYONNAISE JUG OF THE GODS!!!
She blinks her expressionless lizard blink and sings prettily,
“Not paying attention once again, eh, Tommy? Well then!”
Here she trowels a gob onto my nose as if I am nothing more than…
…some frickin’ mason’s brick !
“You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink… BUT... you can make him wish he did” –Miss L.
“What we have here… is a failure to communicate…” – Captain, Road Prison 36, Cool Hand Luke
I was no kindergarten Cool Hand Luke, landing in
Miss Lipton’s lockdown, back in the fountain pen/
inkwell days of ’51… back when you were required
practically by law to publicly broadcast your
applications of intent from the pillory of shame:
“May I go to the ‘basement’ please? It’s... a #2.”
Back when one of us got thirsty, why, we must all be thirsty
and lineup like soldiers at the fountain… back when daydreamers,
fidgeters, and other felons who hadn’t gotten their minds right yet
knew the drill: hands out, palms up, and… the slap of the ruler…
I just cried most days— like that day: coming to with astart at my desk
in a bad Twilight-Zone episode: all the other seats empty… and
the rest of our little robots standing obediently in Lipton’s lock-step
assembly-line (my absence there a flaming neon sore thumb) and me
desperately slithering away from my seat, tip-toeing unnoticed to the
tail end and breathing the reprieved man’s sigh of relief— only to
discover (Jeezum Crow!!!) that every last man-Jack &-Jill is clutching
the prescribed regulation-size scrap of paper egregiously missingfrom
my own little fist! But now… too late!!! Caught in the Crosshairs of
Doom, the line moving forward, and me, a little lumber log riding
THE CONVEYOR BELT OF DEATH to the buzz-sawto stand alone and
vulnerable in Judgement before the all-seeing... all-powerful…
MRS. LIPTON
manning her own Saint Peter’s Gate…
and wielding her tongue-depressor like a scepter,
doling out dollops of white flour paste from her
TWO-GALLON MAYONNAISE JUG OF THE GODS!!!
She blinks her expressionless lizard blink and sings prettily,
“Not paying attention once again, eh, Tommy? Well then!”
Here she trowels a gob onto my nose as if I am nothing more than…
…some frickin’ mason’s brick !
