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Early Morning PoemDimly lamp-lit New Orleans balcony
(Crafted from rusting black iron)
Overlooks a street, fragrant with wet
(The damp clings from previous rain).
Few people walk through the broad road
(Heads shielded by large umbrellas and staring through wide shop windows).
Early and gray, but already light
(The yellowing streetlamps do little to brighten the morning),
As the sun is already eying the day with anticipation
(A faded orange, no vibrant reds).
Windows spring alive with remembered color
(Once-bright paint is now cracked and peeled, but cheerful nonetheless),
Hanging flowers and crawling vines illuminated
(Moss adorns red-brick buildings).
The air is heavy
(Almost sultry, but a little too cool),
Thick with ironically thin mist and acidic cigarette smoke
(A distinct city smell, almost repulsive but a little too friendly),
Street chess and thriving laughter
(The morning is awake now, although it remains gray and damp)
(I don't have anywhere else to be)
And New Orleans is alive.
Nine TimesI saw him nine times.
The first time we were both sitting in the room together, getting ready to take the math test that would determine our placement. I was scatterbrained and throwing things around, trying to find the pencils that I had known I would need but had still just tossed in my purse. He was lounging backwards in his chair, looking for all the world as though he didn’t have a single care in the world, including the upcoming test. It annoyed me, that I was frantic and ready to scream, while someone else could be that relaxed.
I tested out of the class.
I don’t know if he did.
The second time I saw him, it was a few months after I arrived on campus. He was the one rushing and frantic this time, running across the square. He was probably late for class, though I had no way of knowing for sure. I was already lost in my own thoughts and ideas, deciding on my major and convincing people that yes, this is what I really want to do with my life. If they weren
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