Each slot of thought reeks of rot,
My brain of bounded books.
They cordoned off my turquoise veins
But down my brow still looks
On students hiding from the rain,
On squirrels traversing concrete plains.
And as a hen her heavy wings
Protects her smallest young,
So too I my concrete shade
Provide to children flung
Outside my lettered marrow,
Beyond my buzzing thoughts.…