| Poetry |
Working on a Spring Saturday
Outside, the day is teeming with life,
The smell of spring so strong, I nearly drowned,
The heat palpable, squeezing my pores,
Beckoning me to the water.
But my soundtrack is not the birds chatting,
Or the trees swishing to the wind,
Or waves whispering as they caress the sand,
Beckoning me to the water.
It's a scanner - about to tell me
Of people with heat exhaustion,
Of rip currents, capsized boats, missing divers.
But right now it's not telling me anything.
Static. The channels switch.
Snippets of voices, codes, police jargon.
I'd rather be listening to Sgt. Pepper,
Calling me to marmalade skies.
There's not a window within my sight,
It could be raining out, for all I know,
Given how the weather fluctuates,
While the temperature in here's always the same.
I tiptoe out, get in my car - it's work,
I'm going to get some police reports somewhere.
The heat palpable, squeezing my pores,
Beckoning me to the water.
From behind his desk, the officer gives me a folder,
A report of someone who jumped in a fountain.
I'd rather be reading Jack Kerouac,
Calling me to apple pie skies.
by Ana Ribeiro
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