He carries an umbrella if there is br More than a fifty precent chance of rain. br If it pours, I just get wet, br And stomp in mud puddles for good measure. br He thinks his words out carefully br Before he ever opens his mouth, br Where I am ruled by emotion and say things br Without thinking at all, br Then find myself constantly making amends. br He is linear and I am abstract. br Sometimes I wish I could be more like him, br More sensible, logical, realistic-grounded. br Normal. br But I think with my heart, and react from my gut, br And my head usually has little to do br With any of my major decisions. br I wonder sometimes if he looks down on me, br Thinks I'm insane, being the way I am. br Yeah-he probably does. br I can't say I blame him. br As a child, while my classmates br Were learning equations, I was busy, br Gazing out windows, and letting br My imagination run wild. br I still do that. All the time. br But...poetry doesn't make him weep, br And great art doesn't send his heart racing, br The way it does mine. br And I wouldn't trade that, br Not for all the common sense in the world. br So there it is, when it comes down to it, br I like who I am just fine, br And I respect, and admire who he is too, br Very much so, and I don't want to change him, br I just wish...I just wish... br He'd stomp in a mud puddle now and then.