Thursday, January 9, 2014

Thursday Morning

I wrote this free form poem, or prose, whatever you want to call it, on my walk across campus one morning. I was on my way to class and obviously, as the title speaks for itself, it was on a Thursday.

(c) A.F. 2/16/12

It rained last night.
I can see it in the puddles of suspended dirt particles and insect wings.
I can see it in the watered-down brown of the week-old snow.
Dew dabbles every windshield, the sky is a thick gray smear - as if a greasy thumb slid it's oily fingerprint across the penciled words of recycled paper.
It rained last night.
I can smell it in the wet, and matted-dog hair, scent on the air.
I can smell it in the soggy and mud-caked, worm infested soil.
The foul odor of Earth and dirty, dish water collects upon the tiny hair follices of my nostrils.
It is replusive. Like a graveyard pit, dug for a slowly decomposing corpse.
It rained last night.

(c) A.F. 2/16/12

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