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Click hereAlbert's Occiput
It was there, we all knew it:
the bleached white shined
as if waxed, the black sutures
dividing it excited us even more,
like shadowy passages into gray.
The skull reeked with obnoxious possibility,
silently facing the back wall,
a testament to some ancient genius,
honored out of shear brilliance
to spend eternity on a dusty shelf
surrounded by cartons of rubber gloves
beakers of odd chemicals, test tubes
and a discarded text book or two.
Each year we gave it a name
Descartes, Shakespeare, most often, Albert.
We never considered the possible mediocrity
that a janitor's skull would ever grace
the dusty shelf in the Chemistry Lab
of Stroudsburg Junior High School.
The thought just never occurred to us.
So this year Albert's occiput glares
though locked glass, quietly observing us
observing him as we chew gum, pass notes
and whisper just beyond our teacher's view,
confident Albert won't speak a word.
Originally published in Eclectia Magazine (April - May Vol. 8 No.2) w ww.eclectica.org
This poem was mentioned in the Archival Review thread, in a picking through Lit's archive of over 34,000 poems.
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Oh, what a friend is Albert. Watching but never telling secrets.
But in this day and age I just can't help but wonder,
What would happen if old Albert started playing with text messages...
all I can say is Yes, this was brilliant. wtg middleagepoet (I almost wrote new age poet) I dont think poets get to be middle aged. I think maybe we are born old and then work our way back to be as smart as we were when we were born, and then poof! we are gone. So word to the wise poets, take your freaking time. And read middleaged poets stuff. I like it.
reminds me of my A&P class?I can almost smell the formaldehyde. Great work, much enjoyed.