A Poem a Day (739): The real thing

 

The real thing (a prose poem)

 

You buy it hoping it will fit, but you can never really know. Taste a sample. Is it the real thing or is it the Great Pretender? It’s a blind purchase. You go by gut instinct while it kneads your stomach, this punch, count all the ways you’ve come alive. You walk down the street with it, hand-in-hand, all dressed up, wonder if you’re being taken in by The Emperor’s Clothes and if everyone else can see through it, but it seems they all accept it, talk about their old days, tell funny anecdotes, untold secrets, and all the myriad things that make them tick until they’re the very best of friends. It makes them human. You walk skinny roads and alleyways, brave raging highways, tire yourself out in frozen urban until the shiny veneer finally scratches off, erodes in all weathers. Sometimes it takes years. The price was too high. Your purchase wasn’t meant for you. Never delicious, the chef got it wrong. It didn’t suit you, this tail of the coin, not fit for a mermaid, just a lesson to learn from. The Emperor’s arse crack is there for everyone to see. It’s child’s play, but we can all be blinded. So, you walk away, venture into tanglewoods, sap-seeped emerald forests, reacquaint yourself with simple pleasures, take a dip in the surging sea, dig your toes in seaweed-strewn sand, take in the wonder of our skyline slinking from dawn to day to dusk to pitch-black night, and wonder a while on starlight, searching for the elusive North that will expose your way. But if truth be told, you are your own Pathfinder. Journey into the eclipse and follow yourself skyward, earthward, plant yourself for rebirth, returning to your shine as sunflowers do. And when urban recalls you’ll cross the open road, turn the corner, disappear into the anonymous crowd, but your eyes will be open. You’ll never again miss the real thing passing you by in a whisper of rain, keeping tune, maintaining rhythm, staying true.

 

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, October 14, 2025