In the Ward Library

In the Ward Library
Our thighs burned,
But our grins stretched
As we stared into shelves and shelves
Of dusting books.
Unread books are as bad as
Bradbury’s burned books,
So we shifted, scrambled,
And gleefully pulled books
Off of their shelves
And into our laps
To be glanced at,
Quickly,
And then placed down in
Distraction to move
To the next book,
Or the next shelf.

And this is my school,
And these are my professors;
My friends,
Sitting dazzled by written words
And images.
It seems moronic to
Move away
And go to school
When all I need is
Right here,
Behind a padlocked door
With its combination written above
And a log staircase rising
Over shelves of books,
To more shelves of books.

Here we are,
My friends,
And I,
Spread out,
But taking breaks from our words
To let a few slip though our lips.
These are my lectures,
The small talk that breaks silence
And replaces it with
Our white teeth emerging from our mouths
As laughter erupts from our guts.

I study their concentration
As I look up from my writing
And it encourages me
To look back down.
These are my poetic days.
Days constructed with friendly stanzas.