If Anyone Can, Genghis Khan

“Look out where the huskies go, and don’t you eat no yellow snow.” Frank Zappa

And as quickly as they came, they’re gone— dispatched. Bound for more exotic climes, no doubt, more ornate refuges, my words have deserted me. I assume they've gone somewhere they can now frolic without fear, cavort without hesitation and stick their heads into every foxhole they find. I believe—at least I hope—they’ve found a nice young writer who’ll give them a good home and nurture them in a manner respectful of their heritage, perhaps a playwright or even a poet. Forgive me, but I hope they won’t take up residence with a technical writer—the arid surroundings might threaten their delicate nature.

I don’t know why they left. I did my best, within my limited means, to offer them hope of opportunity. Perhaps they realize the futility of a future entrusted to me, and they’ve chosen to return my ring before consummating a marriage built on too little real substance. I shudder to think that I am little more than a one-night stand, but given their reluctance to come around these days, what else am I to think? Slam, bam, thank you ma’am?

I don’t blame them; I blame myself. They needed structure and I gave them parties. They expected a certain dignity of expression and I insisted upon flippant dreck. They longed for Ernest Hemingway and I settled for Monty Python.

Wherever they’ve gone, I wish them well. I must admit, it’ll hurt to listen to them being mutilated by local newscasters and politicians, but they made the choice, not I. If this sort of ignominy suits them, then so be it.

Maybe we’re just too different.