Mr. & Mrs. Jones - Poem by Carlos Gutierrez
On the vertex of an artist's wall,
Also know as Mr. Jones,
Hangs a lilac painting, upside down.
Mr. & Mrs. Jones are a couple,
A very well set off couple,
With no kids,
But with plenty of reputation.
Now Mrs. Jones' father is a locksmith.
A very prudent one, if I may say so.
He owns keys,
Keys in a bundle,
Keys to spare and to lock and to unlock and to lock again.
Twenty-six keys, and not a single piano is around.
There is nothing; you are nothing.
Not a thing, a thing that became a no, a no that was turned into a something.
This is me, that is me.
Who is me? Who am you? Who became we?
No one knows.
Mr. Jones is unaware as well.
And while Mrs. Jones isn't Mrs. Jones anymore,
Well who is she then?
No one knows either.
She just used to be Mrs. Jones,
Now she's nothing,
She turned to be just exactly the same as the rest of we.
Mr. Jones doesn't mind,
But very unlike we, and us, and me, and you, and even Mrs. Jones herself,
He isn't a nothing.
He is quite something alright.
He breathes and jogs,
He turns and hops,
He dances and smiles,
Oh such a polite and heart-warming smile of his.
Mr. Jones; very kind of his nature to smile upon us.
He held my hand once,
While I was still a something.
Now everyone that isn't a someone, but a something instead,
Frowns, and curl their lips, and wrinkle their nostrils,
At just the mere recognition that we are nothing.
This is you, this just happens to be me, and we, and us,
And sadly Mrs. Jones...
'Oh hear that you silly kid? '
Mr. Jones said to me once,
'It's the something clapping,
Oh let us bow down,
Let us distaste this moment of utter hypocritical delight.'
We the nothings love you,
We need you,
And we absorb you with our thoughts,
Are such a miracle.'
And Mr. Jones swung his feet,
And shook his hips,
Until forever came to be.
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