PASSION

The writing seminar broke for ten minutes.

I went outside the ivory tower to feed

my smoking demon in the shade of an awning.  

I carefully packed the bowl of my pipe,

looked to see the tobacco was level and smooth, 

fired up, took a deep drag, and 

blew a thick stream into the air.

Students ambled one by one or two by two

toward summer classes, and an early release

from boring classes and stifled thoughts. 

One motored by in a wheelchair, and

a professor, dressed like a clown

without even meaning to, sped past on an 

electric scooter, frizzy red hair like

a basketball bouncing on his shoulders.

 

I drifted with my smoke...

A sharp whistle from above my line of sight

brought me back, a flash of crimson Cardinal

perched four feet away to investigate

a slip of paper discarded on the walk.

He turned one black eye sideways to the ground,

then the other, hopped a quarter turn to face me…

Skeee!

Flipped his wings and went home.

The unsated demon in my lungs, sighed

when I rose too early so I could print 

this picture and nail it to a wall

inside my head. 

I wonder if it is just me, or did

Hironimus Bosch also work this way?

Author's Note

Wrote this during a break while attending the
Middle Tennessee Writing Project
06/19/2005