By Noah T. Walsh (‘23)
When hands hold knees and chin to chest,
There is enough room for a book, a candle, and a flog
— a little air at best
the cozy, cloudy, inculcating smog.
I clamber out the coffer a newborn cog,
“Hey look mom, I’m a good little machine!”
“Oh son, that’s odd,
When did you get so lean, so obscene?
You must have forgotten all belief, your dreams.”
So, we walk through a grove with warm mugs
I chew my cheek wondering what she means,
“Return. Be gentle, never bury your soul” she says with a hug.
Oh Incubator! I salute you! I will make you a tool!
No longer will you be my twisted sense of school!
Now you are a vessel with self-sustaining fuel!
To the coast! I spot deep, electric, tidal pools!
In this sub, I greet every sea-slug
A new view, colorful, with life the waters teem.
Openness — a new drug!
Amidst the churning water, I send my thoughts up with engine steam.
I had built the coffer to be the coffin that it seemed:
Once student in a bog
Now I sail the Universe free!
I will never cease to dive, even in the fog,
For I have the joy of a rescued dog,
With buoyancy of driftwood possessed,
Yet the calmness of a fallen forest log,
Godspeed those with the willingness to listen and assess!