You were right, Tom,
The days are getting shorter.
And as the snow flakes glaze, I find more and more Interpretations.
Before my six, Tuesday, I saw the campus ablaze with itself and planned to be in it by dismissal. It’s a promise I make to myself to get me through
Even if I consistently miss the flurries of these best years.
Trust. Responsibility. Maturity.
In a letter, I wrote to my dear mother, I begged for a broken curfew. How far have I gone since then? I haven’t seen the bed inMy dorm in weeks, the bed at my home?
He painted over my vines? Painted a baby blue!
Mom says it’s fine. I can doodle in the basement whenever I want. Dad glares over the NY Times puzzle.
“Eleven letter word for shaken and disoriented?”
He held my hand in prayer and I smelled the cigarette smoke.
Matt and John do-si-do around my head, but the wisdom
Is Ani’s and Sheryl’s:The road winds long and the stampede blows the back of my scalp,
Face planted firmly in the snow. I’m used to it, though,
And it’s much more comforting than watching the campus thrive.
I’m worried the cigarette will burn down before I’ll feel anything. The ice begins to form and the days float past as the flakes in the light.
I.D., keys, and books. It’s time to brave the stampede again.Trying to make a name for myself? I’m trying to find my classes. What? What was that? She says a poem can’t rhyme. He says he’s sure there is no god. Why does it have to be so subjective? Why can’t there be a clear cut answer?
Rebuttal to interpretation seven:Tom, my boy, I don’t welcome the ice because even though I know
The whole thing about absence and the heart, I don’t want the pain of waiting. And if I wait too long,
The stampede will be gone. The fire long since smoldered.
Why can’t the road be straight? Why won’t someone help me join Their dash? Help me pull my face from the snow and burn in the blaze of this snowy night. I look to my hands as the flakes trek past them.They’re his in smell, in scar, in pain. Dammit, I love my father! The baby blue. The crossword puzzles. The smell in church. Propelled my hands to my nose those Sundays, before God, To catch the scent a little longer. One day, the smell will be gone. And that’s another thing: I know there is a god And I’m sure his poems rhyme! And if there was still a curfew,
I’d never see a snowflake!
Screw the road less traveled! I don’t want to journey alone. Mom looks up over the dishes disapprovingly. After a letter, a year, and eight grand, I’m still not mature. But it’s not these classes that make me grow, it’s the dying fire of the campus flight.
The ice will melt, the days will lengthen, but there will always be those best years in between.
There’s another for the list, Tom.