The dream college
Is far out in the country,
And I am always late for class.
I rush into the worn rickety building,
It used to be the Fish and Game Club. Now
When I get there
I can’t find the room
And when I do, there’s another
Class in there, an art class I think
And they’re making delicate mobiles
Of birds and clouds.
They don’t know where my
Class has gone, but they invite me
To join them, and I do. What pleasure,
Painting the vague forms, spinning, on strings.
Janet McCann is a Texas crone poet who has been publishing hither and yon for more than fifty years.
© 2016, Janet McCann