I paid $100 for a friend.
And well worth it it was, I will insist—
for though you should not, for mere kindness, spend,
this time, the money will not be much missed.
It was not a transaction for just that—
but honest work that I paid too much for.
I did not pay to have a friendly chat,
though if some went to that, I’m not too sore.
He was a good repairman, and some more.
For though his shop was not worth his said price,
one product in it was worth ten more score:
his warm demeanor—he was very nice.
And now his study group I will attend.
$100 is quite worth a friend.
~~~
School starts tomorrow. School starts yesterday.
School starts whenever education’s ink
bleeds like a shadow over what you say
in every word—in every thought you think.
And so, perhaps it started yesteryear,
or yesterdecade—yester-anytime—
for always the School’s shadow has appeared
wherever Chronos’ eyes lingered on mine.
I’ve tried to hide, but it bleeds everywhere,
in every place I run, it is behind;
calling for my attention, though I dare
not know its wisdom, nor its secrets find.
I’ve tried to make my own, and School is there—
Invention is its everlasting pair.