The Poet, the poeted and the poetee

One must agree though that grasping at straws is only useful if your mind understands the concept of holding on. Otherwise to clutch at straws is to guarantee not only ones own destruction, but that of straws as well. Maybe this is why straws are wary of humans.

“I met a straw once” Mr x. He didn’t like being called Mr x but sadly, that was his name. He rarely spoke so the rest of the table was sat at attention at the sound of his voice. Even Ms d, who was always chattering off to herself sat silent for a bit.

“I know, it was the oddest thing, the straw must have been an absent minded straw or something. I actually surprised it. It seemed to be looking down at the ground as if something was going to leap right out of the earth.”

“Did it?” Ms d, who was eagerly listening now. Straws, after all, were more a modern myth than a real thing. No one had ever even met anyone who had met anyone who had met a straw. Let alone startled one. I had once had a dream about meeting a straw. Not only any straw – the last straw. Another thing of fable. But it was a dream, and besides, if I met the last straw then which straw did Mr x meet. Or perhaps it was the same straw?

“Of course not. I tipped my hat and went along my way”

“Wait, that’s it?”

“Of course, what business do I have interfering a straw staring at the ground. I hear it went on to break the camel’s back but that was for totally unrelated reasons, and a lot later.”

“I would like to meet a straw, I’d imagine I’d get everything I want, a house, a car, a beach – why if I had a straw I would…” Ms d had left us once more to her own mind.

Still, I couldn’t help but think, do straws drown?

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