Caution

Part I

Enough of the caution that has trapped me in casual attire and placed me inside mid-sized cars replete with fake leather seats. Give me the real thing—throw me on leather while the framing beast is still on hoof and storming the foothills. Place me in spikes at the stark white start line of a red cinder track. Cross my chest with brass belts made of live ammunition. Brick the accelerator to the floor and direct me toward a sharp curve. Allow me to occupy the shark cage and then plunk me below the swelling waves.

Caution lines the bottom of the parrot’s cage. Caution wipes the kitchen counter clean and then returns with disinfectant that stings your nose. Caution stands inside the door instead of dancing frenzied blue tracks out into the sparkling white of new snow. Caution weeps hunched in the corner while wrapped in a terrycloth robe. Caution is afraid to leave the house in unmatched socks.

Enough of that. Today, I start with unmatched socks.

--Mitchell Hegman