The Thinker

Sometime around 1880,

I was in a tiny bathroom in Paris,

sitting on the “throne” trying to do my business.

This guy comes in asks me what I’m doing.

I say, “Isn’t it obvious?”

He says yeah, “But what about the way you’re sitting?

What the hell are you thinking about?

Stay right like that, don’t move. Let me make a sketch.”

Next thing I know, I see a statue that looks a lot like me.

Now for years and years,

they all call ME the thinker,

As if I am the perennial ponderer,

The serene symbol of soul-searching

And prodigious patience.

People still look at me in awe.

They feel inspired.

They make assumptions of me representing

Some combination of poetry, intellect, and wisdom.

As if my pose speaks to them in such important ways.

That my head resting in my hand represents deep and noble thoughts.

They don’t know about my dietary delights,

Or of my avoidance of vegetables of any kind,

Or my infatuation with sticky buns,

Or my time at the all night, all meat buffet,

Or my thirst for old fashion old fashions.

Yes, in reality, I was nothing but a gluttonous fool,

A notorious imbiber,

Shit,

That statue wouldn’t even be sitting there

If I’d just eaten a bit more fiber.