Poem
Arts
Campus Life

Unpossible

Intersections No. 19 · Summer 2004

Some say childhood ends in the period between high school
and college, that in growing up you make a trade off
like bartering baseball cards with the neighbor, “I’ll give you late night talks with friends
foooor a career in education. Or how ’bout two Wet Willy’s for a Jack Daniels?”
It seems fair, maybe, that this should be, as I twist
the shower knobs and test the water with a single sandled foot. I step
into the warm stream, stand a moment before bathing.

I’ve given four years to this higher education, four years closer
to some hidden knowledge, four years farther from what I once knew,
four years of reading Emerson, watching “The Simpsons,”
thinking, Me fail English? That’s unpossible. The chimes ring
in the afternoon sun. It’s noon and the ding-ding-BONG of the bells
pulls me to the heart of the warm, bubbling campus.

Around the grassy courtyard, strewn bodies teach strewn bodies
about relationships, advice about hard topics coming all too easy.
They read a poem, write a song, talk the physics of cigarette ash
and how long it can grow before falling, clumped or floating
on the wind, from their scissored fingers. Along the worn brick paths
professors walk side by side with students, taste an apple
between classes, hear the latest political news, or ask
squirrelly freshmen, “What is love?” They don’t know, of course,
that the answer doesn’t start, “Love is,” but rather “Love can be.”

For now I spend evenings with friends, say, “You should have heard
what this kid in my second period class said,” or just play Tecmo
Super Bowl on the original Nintendo, an old school game for those
trying to remember their old school days.

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