Cherity

The rain fell with a certain discontent.
Maybe it was the dehydrated dirt,
Cracking with cramping roots reaching for water.
They were drops of pity for the thirsty ground
And the clouds laughed
As they poured their overabundant supply of water
On the anguished soil.

They watched the desperate drink too fast
And turn to mud
And they watched the mud stick to the soles
Of walkers boots,
Only to be scraped off on the “Welcome”
Mats of their homes.

The clouds played a dirty trick.
As the sun reappeared
And the clouds retreated
To their polished kingdoms,
They sucked the water back
From the ground
Sweeping away
And leaving the dirt with
Only memories of puddles.

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.