In the hours before dawn I like to eavesdrop. <br />Muffled by their worn leather bindings, <br />the writers converse- <br />Shakespeare pleads a play <br />Marx will have none of it <br />Confucius murmurs a truce, lost <br />amid the gossip in Periodicals. <br />Unencumbered by weather or phases <br />of moon, hypotheses and antitheses <br />bounce and rebound <br />off the cold, flat walls next to the stairs. <br /> <br />Morning lifts a hand, hushing <br />their voices into proper behavior. <br />'I hear that poet has a new one out, ' <br />whispers Wordsworth, drifting off to sleep. <br />Einstein rises from his slouch in the corner. <br />'New is relative.'<br /><br />Lori Boulard<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/04-the-real-theory-of-relativity/
