JFK

I am not a poet; however I got stuck in a Creative Writing class and I had to come up with 9 poems. There is one I think came out fine. This is not that one. In keeping with the date November 22, below is one of them honoring the day anyway.

Where do I go?

Mountain tops -- tipped in white

Field trip for geology

Faults, moraine, fossils found

Back to campus,

Crying -- or stunned silence.

Rummors of tragedy --

could they be true?

Rush to Institute Building.

Made of simple white bricks

Near campus where I go for safety

A place for religion classes and friends

Our leader, Brother Peterson, speaks --

He has died

His grin, his wave, stopped.

The convertible, the crowd,

Her pink pill box hat

She cradled him

Speeding to Parkland Memorial

In the library -- screaming, crying.

In the rec room -- Laughter, ping pong.

Where do I go?

Not a disciple, I do not wail

Disgusted with those in the rec room

I cannot go there

I do not belong in the library

I sob on the couch in the foyer between

If you ever want to know what Mount Gorgonio

Looked like on that day,

Ask me.