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Learning to use my lungs.
by Andrew S AdamsMister Anderson sits at the front of the room-
purple shirt, unremarkable jeans and a pair of hightops,
tufts of silver hair protruding from various places upon his head,
a monotone drone from the vocal cords within.
He mutters to the class, knowing that there is no real desire-
and starts reading. Poetry 180, Billy Collins.
a poem about loading pigs.
a poem about other things.
it is too early yet, too early.
the class, begs for sleep;
though a few ears wait eagerly;
waiting for the words he speaks.
this man, in his own way,
will talk to me about kerouac and ginsberg.
he tells me, "read 'Howl'",
peering over my shoulder, noticing
that i have chosen ferlinghetti;
"A buddha in the woodpile".
casually passing, he makes note,
walks to the other side of the room,
seeing sleepy faces. knowing that
he may have to breathe this life
for most these folks;
not for me, though-
this is the first time i've ever been able to breathe. 09/08/2004 Author's Note: first hour: Creative Writing.
Posted on 09/08/2004
Copyright © 2024 Andrew S Adams
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Lindsay Sanders on 09/13/04 at 02:14 AM i wish they offered creative writing at my high school. i can't wait for college.
great poem though. i can relate in a way. i feel like that in lit class sometimes. a.p. lit no less. |
| Posted by Kenneth Lau on 09/13/04 at 10:38 PM Hahah I feel like I'm sittin there all droopy eyed too. I'd be payin attention, but i'd still be droopy eyed. Cool poem. |
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