(Hello all. This poem is a tribute to the work of Douglas Adams, who will have been lost to us for 10 years this Wednesday. Please show your tribute by attending Towel Day, on the 25th of May.)
* * *
Once upon an afternoon,
I decided to take a stroll
to take a break and clear my thoughts
for they were really rather muddled.
I took the main path, past the lake,
weaving through blurry cyclists and drizzle,
when all of a sudden, I heard a voice -
it was a rather sentient puddle.
It chirped up a hearty "Hello!"
to which I was amazed, and
I could feel the puddle 'staring' at me
through its still, watery glaze.
"You look confused, my sodden friend.
You seem to feel despair. I could feel it
when I tumbled down, and landed on your hair."
I scratched my head, and asked the puddle
how it knew this to be true, to which it said
"I'm a puddle, not a psychic. You're cold to my own view.
I think you think you don't fit in,
but that just can not be.
We can all be what we want to be,
now have a look at me.
I woke up this morning thinking
that I would never fit in,
but look at this incredible remarkable hole
that I've found to sit in.
It fits me well, staggeringly well;
it even hugs my curves.
I think I've found my place in life,
now you should go find yours."
I thanked the puddle for its thoughts,
and continued on my way,
and took to heart its solemn words,
and let them light my day,
for the sentient puddle was right:
the hole did indeed fit it perfectly,
so I guessed I had to just go with the flow,
to see where it would take me,
and maybe, just maybe, there would be
a puddle-sized hole, just big enough for me.

