Prudy Sutherland

The rain on the window crinkles like a black celophane.

Nothing to feel, and nothing to say,

Not sick and not high,

No time to write a good insightful letter

Full of earthiness and vim –

Just this feckless poem.

My textbooks have everything down to a science;

Percentiles glitter like rhinestones in the scholar’s crown.

Yet whys are the thumbtacks in my soul,

Which bears the stigmata of either an artist or a fool.

They hurt, generating self-pity if nothing else.

The radio offers occasional smiles

Between the bong, bong, bong of puberty’s ravages,

Songs that bring back meaningful times:

Warm beer in a joyous suicide car,

Being hugged for hating myself.

I am these experiences;

The radio affirms me.

Tonight is not a meaningful time,

Just pent-up solitary raunchiness after too much study.

Prudy Sutherland

15 November 1981