Ode to My Favorite Spot to Sit in College

A broken leaf enjoys my

favorite spot to sit in college.

 

Some kind of string, of

nature but not guts, clings

to a crack of table. Maybe

spider’s webbing, I’m not

sure. It bobs up and down

in the near-constant breeze.

 

Every bolt holding the table

together is rusted, and I can

somehow relate, though I’m

only 35. Every crack tight

but one, and I can see the

tops of my shoes below,

clearly.

 

An ant crawling

on my shoulder, it gives

off an air of knowing,

but God only knows

what.

 

Capitalize the

“g” in “God”—sure,

why not. I do it for

style more than

anything else.

Line variety.

I shouldn’t

speak of

such

things

at my

favorite

spot to

sit in

college.

 

Or shape my stanzas like that.

It’s beneath me now, just as the

red ants on the tops of my shoes—

crawling and biting at skin that

doesn’t feel bite—are beneath this

table.

 

And maybe something is beneath

even that. God only knows what.

 

 

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