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What, Ms. Wynkoop?

by April Ardis Anderson
I hate just sitting here.

Crushed centipede carcasses
of leviathan calibre block out sunlight
that I'd invite to play hide 'n seek in my nose,
and linger like a beloved departing friend;
their exoskeleton scales chime responses
to the boisterous ceiling fan.

I'd rather be outside.

Skipping down the city walk
Deftly dodging then smiting expiring filters,
I'd collide and stumble over sprouting awes
whose existence the sun shed life on;
the stately Comerica building exhibits in blazing burgundy brilliance
viscous solitary clouds on the horizon behind me.

I hate just sitting here.

Cruelly constructed ore-fashioned desks
render lower torso limbs useless.
I remain awake, however, and attentive
to the dusty circumferal clock;
it is irkingly mute and pensive,
over-exaggerating each silent signed motion.

I'd rather be outside.

Sedately slumped against the axis of
a frozen crowned carousel willow tree
observing feisty fish frolicking in inflamed honey
from beneath serene bow laden with wisdom;
retiring topaz leaves extinguish to polished emerald,
imposing more dents in the crumpled gold foil river.

I hate just sitting here
in this pale prison of stale lecture
compressed by condescending fluorescent lights.

I'd rather be outside,
sponged into the shade of ardent architecture
or overtassled graduates of the earth.




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