Concierge Peter suggests
we all need to practice
watching our surroundings
while wondering why,
or how is it like that?
To behave like the elated toddler
who discovers everything is dimensional:
it can be crawled over, pulled, pushed
bitten and unraveled to reveal
what is at the end,
and why it was rolled up and put away.
I whytch the herd of twenty blue hoodies
with grey sweat pants slinking past,
every one of them six feet or much taller,
calling out to each other in male voices
aged by two decades of Gatorade consumption,
I know because I see a bottle of it
through the mesh of their backpack pockets.
I don’t have to harass them with inquiry
to surmise that they are a college basketball team
and that the man of middle years accompanying them
with shirt and pants made out of sweat fabric and drawstrings
is their coach.
Whytch the flowers being rolled in on a cart,
the lobby’s living color changes most every day
I wonder does this change reflect the mood
of the florist and then become the hotel’s mood?
Or does the mood of the hotel determine
the florist’s choice of the flowers?
Either way it does not feel as emotionally purple here
as it did yesterday when the flowers all spoke violet.
Whytching reveals patterns.
There’s Joe with his coffee and subprime mortgage lecture at the bar again!
There’s Monette who comes here every week for the caesar salad,
though today it appears she is just having a tall glass of water
and an earful of subprime mortgage talk.
Practicing whytching is imperative
for excellent eyesight,
c’mon, stretch your eyeballs out
lanyards = business conference
leather satchel = business lunch in the café
backpack = brief overnight stay
sunglasses walking down the hall = leave me alone I am famous
red tie = high achieving business person (usually man)
Whytching demands theorizing
yet suggests no conclusion,
life is learning, death is knowing
I have never been dead except
when I fail to whytch,
when I grumble and pucker,
staring at the skin on my arm
without seeing the hairs, pores, freckles,
the mysterious red spots
or appreciating the scent of wrist.
Wrists smell in their own way
unlike anything else.
Someone takes the steps,
climbing two at a time
dipping the tall reed of their person
in rhythmic appreciation
of this marble terrain.
Someone else runs up the steps
with swift anticipation
for a new location,
an urgent duty,
to be not here
Those who practice whytching
she who types on the landing (me).
Those who love whytching
more than anything else
will hand me a hello.
Let’s make a pact:
don’t be too fast for manners
and I won’t be so slow
that I preach,
instructing you what to do