our village (10)

Did you know that Jerry Randy writes poetry? I saw him pacing one day, must have been last summer, not too hot in the shade, so he was out, just pacing back and forth when I saw him as I was making my rounds. I watched him for a minute, not like he didn’t see me coming, but just watching cuz he looked like he didn’t mind, looked like he was rehearsing lines for a play or something, but I couldn’t imagine him finding a place to act, having dropped out of school and all, so I finally interrupted him and called out, “Jerry Randy, what are you doin?” And he told he was memorizing a poem. Can you believe it? And I said, “well, let’s hear it.” And he said, “well I’ve just finished writing it, so don’t judge too harshly,” and I about fell over — Jerry Randy writing poetry. But I’ll tell you it wasn’t bad. Maybe I don’t know poetry, but after he told me his poem I said, “that’s real good, Jerry Randy. Will you write me out a copy?” Here it is, listen to this:

Still summer day
Sizzling heat, haze
Cicadas scissor-kicking my skull

Still I don’t know
What it’s all for
Is the lake half empty, half full?

By day the sun glares
By night, starry stares
Bye-bye to another day lost.

On cannabis high
No reason to lie
Escaping this scene at a cost.

I wonder, I judge,
I trudge through the sludge,
Perhaps I admire the mire too much.

I wander, I fear,
I try not to sneer
At a world that seems so out of touch.


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