There is a statue at the bottom of the steps
That I normally trip down on an untied shoelace on my way to and from class. It opens up with a “u” shaped body and glass panels layered and cemented together in blue. Like the layers of the ocean. The thermocline. The densest warmest water. I noticed it three days in to the week of where art is honored on campus, where the plays take life in grassy stretches between paths and same food cart from every year fills the commons with spice. I’ve never seen it before I swear. I swear I’ve never notices this 10 foot sculpture reflecting in the few shards of sunlight we are honored before June. And then I think, how I often don’t notice the posters on the walls of every lobby or the exhibits of student work in the CT where the bottom floor smells like paint. Sometimes I notice the students on the bus who wobble through the aisle with there heavy portfolios bumping my knees like the beverage cart on an airplane. They stuff the flat black bags of their hard work between two adjacent seats.
NEW WORDS / LEVELS of LANGUAGE / PARENTHESIS / INVERSION / PARATAXIS
My work for my TEXT & IMAGE class @ PCC. Follow the blog.
We are strangers sharing
walls with other strangers.
Paper thin drywall, stucco whitewashed
walls between two lives. What you do
on your side I don’t know
but I care somehow because
I often hear your water running;
the rushing of it down the drain.
I sometimes hear your sadness
or laughter. Occasionally I feel
the tremor of the walls as you hit
your fist against them. When you crank
your heat in winter, I feel that too.