In the class room
the fan makes the loudest noise
second to the crinkle of paper
turning, shuffling.
Shifting bodies.
deep breaths,
inhaling fortitude,
exhaling a last,
desperate hope.
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Day 14 of NaPoWriMo. Not following the prompt, which is about examining one’s name. Patrick Lane has already written the only Bird poem I’d want to write!
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I’m chilled to the bone.
I wish for a wood stove:
that crackle and flash,
heat that sinks in deep,
defines cozy comfort,
makes me want to sleep.
I can hear my mother,
If you’re cold, put on a sweater!
I want a wood stove:
the summer scent on logs,
I want
warm feet on a hassock,
hot cup of tea,
well-written mystery.
Fine, Mother.
I’ll get a sweater, too.
I heard the rumble of
my grumblings
and wished
and wished
and wished
for what was glorious and joyful
what was fun and focused
what was
ah
what was.
This is uncomfortable
unsettling
unsatisfying
unbearable.
I heard murmuring
everywhere.
Everyone
grumbling
wishing
wanting
longing
for what was,
what no longer can be,
looking
for change again.
Everyone
and
me.
Shawn L. Bird 