And every day that cooky neighbor be heard, if not seen, practicing and polishing.
Rehearsing his speech or letter or rant: whatever he was calling it on any given day.
His appeal to the powers that be, he once called it.
A source of laughter among us, his neighbors.
It was a quirky little past time, a joke that every one could join in on.
But one day, he said he was running out of time, that the day was coming.
Again, we were each prepared to share in a laugh, except he asked us what we were planning to say.
And that stopped any mockery from even starting.
The absurdity of the notion was still laughable, but it got each of us thinking.
What would I say?
If the inter-dimensional complaints department did in fact come calling, what would I have to say?
What should my argument be to the universes' court of appeal?
A dangerous thing, to be tempted with some belief in individual agency.
It almost makes one wish they could speak up. And in speaking, be heard ...
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