If surprise has died,
then, pity.
Could be depression
or too-tight briefs.
Surprise is the thing of beauty
touted by smart-ass gurus.
But we claim that it
gives us heart attacks
and migraines,
maketh us to pick up
stones in the presence of
strangers.
We expect surprise to
maintain some decorum,
keeping to its place
inside boxes tied
with taffeta ribbons.
We expect surprise only
by invitation.
Truth be known,
surprise detours us from the
ruts of yesterday,
seduces the beards
from faces,
the quips from throats,
keeps us honest
before the court
of propriety.
We've disappointed surprise.
If surprise has died,
it's our own damn fault.