Nine Thirty-Six A.M.

Unearthed an old experimentation with form! (I often wish this site had a genre option of "Free Verse". It would *free* a lot of us, I suspect.)

                                        I don’t understand the point of pauses in poems.                      The leaves are just as scarlet if I keep talking.      I’m supposed to be in science class         right now          but what good is a Friday morning in October if you don’t                       breathe in as much autumn air as your lungs          can handle.                                    Is there supposed to be a shape             formed by these pauses?                  I never get to take the bridge between the railroad and Hillside                                      I don’t feel guilty at all.                         Twenty minutes into meandering and I have taken very stereotypical pictures of all the trees with Thanksgiving-colored leaves.                               I don’t feel good, either.                  Something in-between.           Is it okay if I don’t feel like anything?                 Well, no, I feel different,                                                                    and that in and of itself justifies taking forever to go nowhere.