Gifts

After many bus rides, a man lies down in bed and realizes that some travel is better than some destinations. This man traveled by bus across state lines. He traveled with friends all around him but with one in his lap. Now he's home and staring at the ceiling, thanking some celestial spirit for the gift of love. Though his bed is comfortable, the bus rides that got him there were much more comfortable. He feels lonely and counts out every speck on his ceiling: every person he knows, every star in the sky. No use. And of course he feels lonely because just hours ago his body and feelings were intertwined with another. Now he wishes he and the other were still, as he lies still. She (the other) gave him a gift: warmth that affronted a winter outside a bus window. The trip was bought in full, the hotel and the bus were rented, but this girl gave him a gift of innocent company and happiness. He doesn’t feel happy all that often. Hence as he tries to sleep, he wishes his blankets could match her soft skin.

Feeling love, if only for a few hours, is a gift that consumes all of one’s surroundings and channels all energy into touch. Roudin couldn’t capture this energy in his sculptures, which we thought were funny to see after our bus ride. For a good two hours, we met up in the Philadelphia Art Museum. Then it was briefly back on the bus; stoic. As we left that bus, our arms let go and whispered goodbyes. We would take different busses going home, then different cars going home, and finally different steps leading to different bedrooms. I’m finally home. It’s been two days since my gift. Winter never seemed colder.

Impetus at the Round Table

Crowded in a room of people,
Pupils,
Proud debaters and agitators,
Shakers,
I listen hard to the ground, to an inner conscious,
I wish.
It’s all disjointed.
The people,
They look hard around the table,
It’s a complete mess,
A lever is pulled and the room retrogrades,
Back to a fire-pit,
Into a hole:
A roundabout discussion,
Your opinion, my opinion,
Greater or equal decisions.

I’ve got to supplement this moment with a capsule,
Swallow it whole and sour.
Ingest this round table of aggression.
My stomach would dissolve these characters,
These people who stare until we all become translucent,
Shapeless and cover-less.
One should ask us to grapple with this idea:
“Collective consciousness”
But by now it is too late
Dissipated memories are we,
Around the boardroom of discussion.
Products of round table retort,
Forced into a deepening crevasse.
Separate cognitive angers,
A hole of debaters,
Impulses of disagreement.

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Based on AP lang classroom table