Poem

034

There is a cliche

that would be easy to say:

Reading is an adventure.

But it’s so much more

than a park tour

or a fictional lecture.

It’s swimming, it’s baseball,

it’s an old oak, 30 feet tall

that no one intends to cut down.

It’s an orange feather,

it’s curl-up blanket weather,

it’s New York City downtown.

Reading is broken chalk,

a midnight walk,

and a pair of sole-worn shoes,

left over chip cheese dust,

forgotten pizza crust–

a red alto sax playing the blues.

Reading is everything

all hooked on a string

that is incredibly strong.

Reading is never clean

and if you think you know what reading means,

I’d hazard to guess you’re wrong.