The sign reads, "OPEN".

“We’re open,” they cheer.

“For what?” I wonder.

“Open for business.”

Ah, yes, “for business.”

“We’re all open.”

All?

But, what “all” is open?

Open eyes.

Eyes, it must be open eyes,

Unless it’s I-deology,

A three dimensional bound space

That not only constrains

But refracts.

Not eyes, but it must be biology,

Since a virus caused the question.

Open ears, instead?

Open arms?

Open wounds.

Leaves open.

Timeslots open.

Unplugged pores.

Horizons.

Still, one can sue the windswept pollen.

If pollen isn’t free,

How can we fit through the gaps?

Only when we’re allowed,

For business.

So, it’s

Open season.

An

Open market.

“We’re open,” they claim.

“For what?” I worry.

The hunt?

That’s life.

And death.

Cycles mark a space,

Open.

Perhaps more a forgotten middle

Ground formed

From images of arrows abandoned in a futile chase.

Books.

Educators shield their centers with hardcovers.

Parker Palmer wrote, “You need open space, but with limits.”

To the options? To the conversation?

Practical.

Efficient.

Of course, the educational space must be bound.

To ensure repetition.

Supply and demand.

So says history and science and religion and literature.

So says the school supply list that requires full and blank pages.

Open books.

Storytelling. Starting over. A new ledger to balance.

State the facts so the numbers match.

The data is anyone’s truth,

As long as we’re all allowed to see it.

“Be open with me,” I demand. “It’s my right.”

“Of course. We’re open. Why wouldn’t we be?” they ask.

I wait.

“What do you want?”

“The truth.”

Further Reading:

Wise, Tim. (2015). Under the Affluence: Shaming the Poor, Praising the Rich, and Sacrificing

The Future of America. City Lights Books: San Francisco.

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