Somewhere, somewhen,
a group of adults sat down
and decided:

No ice cream cones
in your back pocket.

Record the minutes.
Seal it.
Archive it.

Because before it was a law,
it was a problem.

Someone kept pocketing desserts,
and the room finally said,
“That’s illegal now.”

Then it spreads.

Somewhere, a council met
in folding chairs
and declared:

No tying alligators
to fire hydrants.

Which means at least once,
there was an alligator,
a hydrant,
and a very confident person.

In another town:

No exploding golf balls.

Not discouraged.
Illegal.

Someone yelled fore!
and the legislature said,
“Absolutely not.”

Elsewhere, it is forbidden
to sell your own eyeballs.

Picture the meeting.
Someone brought charts.
Someone used the word
“trend.”

You also may not
pretend to be a funeral director,
fish from a giraffe,
or bring snakes
into the barber shop.

Every rule is a ghost story.
Something happened.
Someone said,
never again,
and wrote it down.

And somehow,
I find comfort in this.

We are toddlers with clipboards,
disasters with paperwork,
learning by catastrophe
and then filing it neatly.

So, listen closely:

Do not pocket your ice cream.
Do not share the front seat
with bears who asked first.
Be cautious with golf balls.
Be kind to hydrants.
Leave your eyeballs alone.

And if you ever feel strange
for the logic that lives in your head,
remember:

Somewhere, someone
made that logic
illegal,
on purpose.

Thank goodness.

Meg Taylor writes poems about ordinary moments that tilt sideways, grief, growth, corporate burnout, and the odd laws humans create to control chaos. She lives in Indiana and believes curiosity is the best survival skill.