What, Ms. Wynkoop?by April Ardis AndersonCrushed 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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