Ladies and gentlemen, this is the last call for entries in the final Poetry Month contest. Everyone who enters by 9 am Monday, May 7, receives a prize. Read the entry below for May 2, then e-mail me the answer.
In the meantime, enjoy a poem by Rosie King, courtesy of The Writer’s Almanac.
Old South School
The sidewalk my feet once knew in every weather
still heads straight
to the corner of Martin's drugstore,
still turns north on Elm, where
the white-belted boys on safety patrol
held their arms out for us, past the red and white pole
at Mickey's, king of crewcuts,
and stops at the little flight of steps,
plinth of chipped concrete by the kindergarten door—
locked. It's summer, and all the windows
now stuccoed muddy brown,
so even when the kids are at their desks,
they can't see out.
I want my yellow slicker,
my locker by the art room stairs
where once in a morning of thunder,
from the stairwell's high window
dark clouds blew away
and just in time
for walking home
the sun poured down.
A crow now,
flapping and cawing high above the west steps,
and there, on top of the entrance columns, stone claws
clinging to the eaves—tiny gargoyles grinning.
by Rosie King, from Sweetwater, Saltwater: Poems by Rosie King. © Hummingbird Press