I recall a cold February day
Skies black as coal
Telling tales of brewing storms
As my class sat
Reading Steinbeck's
The Pearl
My friend and I shared a book
Reading aloud from the crumpled pages
Yellowed with age
Brimming with fine detail
Beautiful, if long
It's eloquence haunts me to this day
Like a conscience
Haunts a killer
I was entangled in it when my friend said to me,
"Why must it always be so long and detailed?
Why can't they write books the way I like them -
Short,
Sweet,
And to the point?"
At the time, I was dumbfounded.
How could one not appreciate
An artist's masterpiece?
Her words shocked me to the core;
I could not speak
If I were to go back to that day
That time
That 5th hour English class
I believe I know what I would say to her.
With a gentle smile
And knowing eyes,
I would speak:
"Because there's a name for the type of books you like, my friend.
And it is quite simply known as
Poetry."