My first plane,
was some ruled paper, full of history dates,
battles won, lost, meaningless
massacres. In subdued class,
submerged in information,
the afternoon was sparkling. Clean
her pretty pearls, her fragrant hair,
her hands lying idly, with pink nail polish
uncaring of tyrants, one in herself
she caressingly glanced: time sped by
in BCs and ADs, and farther-
-when they broke up. Bell rings,
the plane never lands. She turns petty.

08/21/2014

Posted on 08/21/2014
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