I don’t think Wednesdays are wicked anymore. They haven’t been wicked since a shift happened at work, and now they are nicer. Well done, Wednesdays.
Tonight was particularly okay. One sweet thing that happened tonight is that my colleague friend read children’s stories to our bunch before bedtime. He hasn’t done that in a long time, because we haven’t had a student population that could handle it respectfully, but tonight they were all giggling, and sighing, and moving to the front of the living room to get a better view of the pictures. I could’ve been writing a quiz, or prepping for tomorrow, but I was drawn by the sweetness, and it was a good reminder of how young our population is really. I mean, even the oldest, at eighteen, is not that old. They want to be read to, and babied, and petted, because they are just young. It was a good realization.
Earlier today I started an angry, evironmental, political ranty about rail cars carrying unquenchable flammable material through my town and the state representatives who trade communities for profit, but I’m tired, and not angry any more.
What’s on my mind tonight? Viruses, of course. It is cold and flu season. There are viruses in the news. So, I’m going to write a quick End-Of-Days poem and go to bed.
In Their Nests
We have the land and the spring, so that is food, but we need to get better at gardening and get solar for the UV fliter. We need a military-style invisible fence, which I’m pretty sure exists, a tower for surveillance, and neighbors without relation next door in case we need to re-populate Earth, becoming the new prophets. When we are the surviving last, one night we will walk out to listen to our safety gurgle and wonder if the drop on the outerwear was rain or bird shit. Speaking at once, we’ll say rain, because the birds are doing their thing in their nests, and we’ll do our thing in ours.
‘Night poemfriends. It’s been a long day, but a good day. Wednesday.