On Rearranging Plato's Cave

"The check is in the male", they say but not the way I mean,
For checks and cheques quite different are, and just not what they seem.
A Cheque’s about a "sum of cash", and check's "approving sign";
For "male" is ’bout a guy I know –  (intelligent design).

I check up on the check in him, drop in to chat at times,
The ‘him’ is no concern of mine, he’s God's, and that is fine;
It's more the check that's in the male, (like paper cheques, they burn,
Or crumple, crush, drop out of sight –  a lesson I have learned).

But cheques we know are not the cash, they're just a note to act;
A note we pass on to the bank –  irrelevant in fact;
It says "Take so much cash from me and add to his account;
It has a signature attached, a date, and set amount.

The reason we don't carry cash, is cash can lose its way;
If that occurs we're up the creek –  it messes up our day;
So we send notes about the cash, directing banker-types
To move the money in their bank –  and how to do it right.

Misfortune, should it fall on checks, is neither here nor there;
It's just a note, can be replaced, and need not be compared
To value that is actual, and real in banker's books,
For signs can come and go (and do) –  for value elsewhere look.

So too with checks within the male –  that's not where value lies;
We think it is, but when it's lost, we’re pleasantly surprised –
Another check, like cheques I write, can be produced tout-suite,
For signifiers just stand in for values that we meet.

A check has value –  "How are you?" –  we ask it all the time;
We sometimes ask, "Just how am I?" –  most times we answer, "Fine".
What that's about is reading checks, it's quick, and works quite well,
But when the check has been misplaced, or damage, that is hell –

But really, that's just in our mind, the paper's all that's lost,
It's not the value, just a note, and time is what it cost;
For we must get the cheque replaced, a nuisance (silly me!)
But that we do, and life goes on, the value's elsewhere –  see?

Self-estimates of worth, like cheques, are useful, safe, and quick,
They signify a priceless worth, but matter not one whit;
For value is just signified –  untouched back in the safe;
When check that's in the male is lost, it's easily replaced.

So who's the banker in this case? The one who shifts the cash?
Does value really lie in us, or in the banker's stash?
For me, like bankers in our world, the value's out of touch,
No matter what transpires today, it will not matter much.

That frees me up to play with things, and rearrange the den;
To take a break, stand back and think of what, and why, and when;
And even how it might be done as change affects the course,
And who might be involved with us and where to find resource.

For all these ‘things’ we move around just signify the real;
The value's in another place, which deep within we feel;
In poetry I get things out and put them on the page,
Then standing back, I check them out, then with its truth engage.

Today I watched and realized the check's not in the male,
But in the things you shuffle ’round like poetry or tale;
Some things don't fit, some things intrude, how can it all fit in?
Once story's out, without a doubt –  we're into editing.

navigation