Wednesday, January 31, 2007

New poem

A walk home from the Hinckley
Steven Hopkins

My $70 dollar textbook had struck out on his own
And a my-age custodian told me I had no hope of finding him.

So, I set off into winter, with empty hands.
And a mile of time to ponder.

The sky insulated every sound
With cloud-quilts stapled to its underside.
Whistling like a foam microphone.

The air was filled with zillions of ice cubes
Bustling like students onto my tongue through my nostrils
And tasting like origami.

I Sherlocked that I must bounce as I walk.
Because the ice cubes
Hung like Michael Jordan with each stepdown.

I saw ants!
Their 15-degree exoskeletons
Braving the elements for some discarded lettuce.
I hope they weren't trying to fill their store.
Winter’s half over you lazy ants.

Half way,
My fingerends chilled my fleece pockets.
Glowing like blue embers
And smoking like dry ice.
A friend passed me and mouthed the words
"Stay warm," but the sky-quilts licked it up
Before she sounded.
So I just smiled a hello back
But still felt alone.

Two sad trees moseyed the rest of the way with me
Like dog-tired children with frozen faces
Zigzagging home with no knees or elbows.
We would've talked about how we could smell
The insides of our heads, but they were just trees.

By then I had forgotten about my textbook.
Hope he’s doing all right.

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