My Personal World, Pt. 4: Summer

This poet has no love for summer at all.
It marks the end of academic anxiety and
Indolent intellectual idolatry, of the study-hall,
A hiatus from escape in intervarsity sports
When my lily-white legs cannot hide behind shorts,
A parting of colleagues, a parting of friends,
When the parts of my life that I live for all end,
And the beginning of repetitive, sweaty, half-headed tasks,
So I find that I must repeatedly ask
John and Art and Lars to take me to see
A place where there's No Such Thing as the real world
Everything is Wonderful, and the Bell Tolls for me,
A world of musical parts, but assembled on my own
Where the tedium parts for a glimpse of the unknown.
There may be weeds in the flowers and grime in the grout,
But the air moves with waves worth writing about.
There are mysteries – “why have minds bodies?” “whence do they part?”
“Why are farts funny?” “what's wrong (and/or right) with my heart?”
– and others, far more technical, obscure and picayune.
The music takes me to the library and out into the field.
I go back to my studies without leaving the room.