Dwelling deep in his studies.
He writes and ponders, pen taping on blank sheets of paper.
The words flow from memories of old text books from the 1800’s.
His last lesson was botany.
Botany?
He was not suppose to be in this field.
He dreamt of carrying guns when he was young.
Cowboys and Indians fashioning an Oklahoman accent.
That “Good Ol Boy” is tucked away behind his rib cage.
His mind becomes muddled with grading papers and wine.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
-
Many pieces torn into shreds, year by year. Fragile bits cracking gently but never mending. To the core that binded never was. We traveled... -
Forgive me for being on this fast track, This train keeps passing the stations I’m suppose to be getting off. A night here in paradise h...
-
I don’t own a sewing kit, no one has ever asked me to sew a button or hem a skirt. I never mended the holes in my socks when I was older. My...
No comments:
Post a Comment