Ulrich Q. Wiedersehen was a most unusual klutz.

His monumental blunders in Germany were legendary, from going the wrong way on the Autobahn to falling off a turret of a tall Bavarian castle. Yet he always survived to screw up again.

Long-staring Germans called him “Der Glucklicher Dummkopf” (“The Lucky Fool”). Yet most believed that the spectacular feats of stupidity were signs that his luck would run out, and that Mr. Wiedersehen was doomed to go the way of the Dodo, the Great Auk, and the Wooly Mammoth.

When Ulrich died, no one knew the cause. He departed this earth without saying goodbye, but throngs of Germans gathered for his funeral and shouted, “Oaf Wiedersehen.”

An old, forbidding wooden house shrouded in cobwebs and rumors. A faded “condemned” sign tacked to a rickety front door for the past thirty years.

Yes, that’s how I’ll start my drabble. I can feel the dark prose taking shape.

No one dares approach this house, especially at 10 at night when unearthly groans are heard by the few neighbors left. Locals repeat a myth that a boy once snuck into this house, but never came out. His soul is said to be waiting to trap the next intruder.

Yes, I can feel myself in this godforsaken place. I almost

"There is no such thing as a dumb question."

That's what teachers, supervisors, and lecturers told me.

When no one in my work group posed a question, my boss added, "Don't be shy. There's no judgment. No one to stop you from asking anything."

A few giggles surfaced, reminding me of the ridicule and judgment that I risked.

So I kept my question to myself:

"Is there such a thing as a dumb answer?"

A raspy cackle raises my hackles,

and my feet stop, as if in shackles

near a dark, godforsaken chapel.

A diabolical laugh crackles

again, as if wheezing jackals

are stalking me, trying to tackle

my soul, treating it like an apple

to be devoured without a grapple,

followed by a burp and a cackle.

"How are you doing today?"

Like you, I receive this greeting two or three times a day, especially from a coworker at the start of another workday. Sometimes the five-word question is sincere, but most often it is a mundane way to say "hi."

And the standard reply is usually just as routine: "Fine. And you?"

However, I decided years ago to break out of the rut, and answer the "how are you" greeting with a different word: "Smooth." (As in no problems, no difficulties.)

I often receive a raised eyebrow or a smile. But the first time a female coworker heard my reply, she was momentarily speechless. In the vacuum, I asked, "How are you doing?"

She paused and said, "Lumpy."

I changed the subject.

I saw my old banjo case

in the back of my closet,

where for years it languished

with the instrument inside.

I recalled the day we split

and I gave my heart to a guitar.

Something moved me to brush away

the dust, and I hauled that old case

into the bedroom where the banjo

and I long ago made music

together. I opened the lid

and gazed upon my old love.

She was as I remembered her.

The wooden neck I used to cradle

was still a dull, faded brown.

The frets in front were worn down.

The five steel strings were frayed

and no doubt needed tuning.

As I so gently lifted

my ex out of her dark grave

I noticed the marks still etched

into the light synthetic head--

flaws made by my errant

fingerpicks scarring her beauty.

I recalled her patience

as this beginner slowly learned

how to treat her properly,

how to make bluegrass music,

how to introduce her to jams.

But all that was in the past.

Could lost love be rekindled?

I had to find out, so I slid

my picks onto my left pointer,

middle finger and thumb.

With my hands in their old places,

I tried to revive our magic.

Hesitantly, pick by pick,

our very first song together

slowly emerged. “Cripple Creek.”

I paused to savor the moment.

Time apart did not destroy love.

My muscle mem’ry was still there.

Dear God,

Please make these unending wars stop. Please end the plight of the hungry. And, on a personal note, please end this insufferable writer's block.

I know I should not elevate my petty problem into the league of worldwide catastrophes. But I sit here with nothing to write about. I feel my prose is just drivel. Unremarkable. Just another grain of sand on a beach somewhere. Who would want to read my stuff? This is the pits. Why should I even try to write? Why...?

My bad, God. Sorry for the pity break.

Now, about those wars and that hunger. If you could just...

Maybe if I could write something to my representatives, my friends, anyone. Something that would inspire a solution to problems. Maybe I could...

Thank you, God.

Yours,

Sandlot

Oh, I feel autumn's ache

as that next season nears.

My loneliness awakes,

and hope gives way to fears.

I feel the ache growing

as "w" months rear

their ugly, approaching,

gnarled hands that took my dear.

Of, if only this ache

would sleep or disappear.

Springs or summers I'd take

to hold love's mem'ry near.

“Go there! If you want to see your family again.”

Those thundering words and the sound of a death rattle echo in my dark living room at two minutes of midnight.

I run to my car, open the passenger door, but cannot slide to the steering wheel. The sedan starts on its own, locks its doors, and drives me to wherever “there” is. The stopped car unlocks.

I open the door and step into blackness. Stones crunch under me. Moans catch my ear. A chill envelops. My car drives away without me.

I hear the booming voice again. It snickers.

Why did I just say “yes”

To something I do not profess?

Let me count the ways

And “whys” I give praise

With a loving gaze

When my mouth betrays

What my heart obeys,

And I acquiesce.

Why did I just confess

To a blatant lie? It’s complex.

The liar may be admired

Or someone desired,

And I am a shy bird

Gullible and tired

So I may be inspired

To just acquiesce.