Not Even Close

This is all new to me, this newness. This is not what I supposed it to be, not even close. Why this and not that, or that and not this? I am stymied. Why is it that one thing is this and another that, or one that and not this? I am confused, addled, not quite with it. Where to begin when all the beginnings are the same, identical and interchangeable? This is not supposed to happen, this battlement and confusion. I once saw a man with a pole for a leg; he scrabbled across the top of the pavement like a match, a fiery cockscomb in his wake. When I asked him why he had a pole for a leg he answered, because there were no new legs to be had, so I jimmy-rigged this one out of a mop handle and yoke. I see, I said, not wanting to make eye contact with him, a mop handle and yoke, very industrious indeed. He winked at me, the folds in his eyelids snapping, and headed up the pavement, his pole-leg waking and corseting. I looked down at my legs, the left one then the right and said, I’m close, very close, but not quite there, not yet at least.