The dawn purloined by a shadowed thief,
in the kitchen morning blues were stealing,
across the sprawl of formica grief
with hot buttered daybreak unappealing.
Perforations flooded to slake the thirst,
and down on thermoplastic, kneeling,
a hot Hail Mary brewed and burst
and spiderweb cracked the ceiling.
The chain mail pot spilled a stain of toffee
and dreams died once more with feeling,
rats in the walls tapped a preference for coffee
with the legend: “Move over, Darjeeling.”
Assembly.
Disassembly.
Reassembly.
When the bell tolls
it tolls for me.
Alone I walk in crowded
concrete corridors;
feet, doom-laden,
slapping thermoplastic
floors.
Years we will do this.
Years we will be taught.
Years we all will walk in
concrete corridors.
Walking unto the light,
freedom's light;
walking unto the world of
women and men.
Armed with bestowed knowledge
that two and two makes four,
the Battle of Hastings was fought in 1066,
energy can neither be created nor destroyed...
wandering lonely as clouds...
Freedom fighters,
guerrilla's armed with this
potency
and so much more.
The echo of the concrete,
of slapdash feet on thermoplastic,
may well reverberate,
reaffirming their message of
doom.
Yet that is further away than
the eye can see.
Now is sweet honeydew Summer,
the best years of a life
yet to come.
Assembly.
Disassembly.
Reassembly.
Man,
are we up the
Swanee.
And though we know it
now is not
the time
to
care...
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