300 Othello Avenue
Perhaps every university campus has a similar thing.
An edifice, a place where everything nightly happens.
Even a compass would be confused, chilly, quivering.
All directions pointing to that table that defies NEWS.
-- where we sat or lay upon it in the kitchen laughing.
Kitchen. Who cooked there? Not a living soul. But ate.
Cried. Hugged. "Studied" quote unquote, snow falling
on a driveway that only dreamed of holding a vehicle.
Simple times and ideals -- sleepy alarm clocks ringing.
Wine and beer in a cellar, and decades to learn things.
Just tonight I walked past, and scratched my bald spot
thinking -- I've never experienced such euphoria since.
-- © Ciprianowords, Inc. 2012 --