discrepancy

It rains just when you think you wouldn't need your umbrella on your way home from work. The sun slips behind the puffy cottons of clouds for too long and you think your dripping dry laundry has a chance of making it to the closet, neatly folded, this evening. On both instances you're wrong. So now you're looking at toes wiggling at you asking you when was the last time your feet got to wear a matching pair of socks. Your pants cover them up and you walk and talk briskly, drawing attention to your persona and to your presentation, and not to your unevenly colored socks. But your toes know better. Toes have an aesthetic conscience. It gnaws on you. And you tell them to give you a break because the sun needs a day off and this sudden whim of that shining source of light has thrown the schedule of the rains out the window. A slide comes up the screen and you tell unseen anonymous faces in the darkened room a story about the picture on that slide, and they believe you. The universe all around and through out follows a balance. You have reached in to that law and mastered it and that is why you can persuade. But your toes know better. Good thing your shoes hide them well. You hope, this evening, that it doesn't rain. You wiggle a toe of a prayer and that's all you have. That's all you have.