Factory hedgehog moves and clinks.
Its right foot raised, the left one sinks.
Little steel eyelid slowly blinks.
Chug. Whistle. Chug.
Factory hedgehog isn’t too bright.
Revelations don’t keep it awake at night
And it’s never had very good hearing or sight.
Chug. Whistle. Chug.
Factory hedgehog lives in the ground
where insects are damp and easily found,
and there aren’t many ferrets or weasels around.
Chug. Whistle. Chug.
It gobbles a factory slug.
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I wrote the poem after I titled the blog, and I'm still
trying to come up with a concise way of describing the
correlation between the name and coming-of-age novel.
I think it has something to do with inexorability. We move
on and on, toward our respective ends, and there's not
much we can do to stop the clock from ticking. The
occasional set of novel ideas (in both senses of the word)
can liven things up a lot, as can the occasional good meal.
I like the factory hedgehog because I find it comforting to
picture a creature who is basically unconcerned with
any nonsense the world throws at it, who keeps nosing
around in the dirt in search of the things that make
its life more interesting.
As I come to the end of high school and try my best to
meet all the expectations that have come to mean so
much to me, I find myself having to keep going back to
the image of that hedgehog, clunking away.
Somewhere in the world, there is a Benji who is trying
to figure out where he stands with his boss, and whether
that boss is a racist jerk or a brotherman. Somewhere
else in the world, there is a Benji who has just discovered
the answer to that question. Time moves on, and so do
we.
So does the hedgehog, and it takes its time. It's nice to
remember that all stories take time, and happen no matter
which road we take.
Chug. Whistle. Chug.
