Lauren Johnson

Creative Writing
The Thinker
Think, think, think, think.
I cant see a statue, a masterpiece;
Just a little yellow bear
In the Hundred Acre Wood.
Well, how would you focus? Eh?
Tell me that, when all you
Can see is him in his red shirt
On a log on Windsday.
A pink Piglet soaring
On a string, with a T-I- double-guh-er
Uprooting the carrots in Rabbits garden.
An Owl in a library,
A Kanga and a Roo sweeping
The leaves from the front walk
Only to have them blow back again.
All while a little yellow bear
Sits in front of his house,
Trying to figure out (a squishy elbow on his knee,
Stuffing bursting from the stitches
In his back as he replicates the famous pose)
Where in the hundred acre woods Christopher
Robin took his balloon.
His thoughts are so trivial,
So innocent, so mundane.
Are all thoughts supposed to be
Meaningful and powerful?
Must all have galaxies
In vibrant blues and violets
Swirling oerhead, and ancient philosophers

With waist-long beards and sackcloth togas?

Does the Thinker, who sits on his block,
Mind what we believe he minds?
Or, like us, is he
Wondering whether the cold cereal is out.
And whether our beds are made,
And the shutters are open.
Whether we did the homework assignment due in an hour,
Or packed our lunch,
Or if the kid next to us fancies our friend,
Or what Mom will be cooking for dinner tonight.
And whether the grass will be greener tomorrow.