Quoth the Raven
by Frank Freeman
It was raining outside, I was bored.
My father was an intern.
He was too busy to play with me.
Twenty-four hours on, twelve hours off.
My father was an intern.
He told me to go read a book.
Twenty-four hours on, twelve hours off.
Rain trickled down the window panes.
He told me to go read a book.
The one I picked was heavy and blue.
Rain trickled down the window panes.
The pages were like onion skin.
The one I picked was heavy and blue
While I pondered weak and weary...
The pages were like onion skin.
They whispered between my fingers.
While I pondered weak and weary...
Quoth the Raven, nevermore...
They whispered between my fingers.
How could something so beautiful be so sad?
Quoth the Raven, nevermore...
It was raining, I was bored.
How could something so beautiful be so sad?
He was too busy to play with me.
My father was an intern.
He was too busy to play with me.
Twenty-four hours on, twelve hours off.
My father was an intern.
He told me to go read a book.
Twenty-four hours on, twelve hours off.
Rain trickled down the window panes.
He told me to go read a book.
The one I picked was heavy and blue.
Rain trickled down the window panes.
The pages were like onion skin.
The one I picked was heavy and blue
While I pondered weak and weary...
The pages were like onion skin.
They whispered between my fingers.
While I pondered weak and weary...
Quoth the Raven, nevermore...
They whispered between my fingers.
How could something so beautiful be so sad?
Quoth the Raven, nevermore...
It was raining, I was bored.
How could something so beautiful be so sad?
He was too busy to play with me.
Frank Freeman’s poetry has been published in Maine Sunday Telegram, The American Journal of Poetry, The Aroostook Review, The Axe Factory, The Decadent Review, The New York Quarterly, SN Review, and Tiger’s Eye. His book reviews have appeared in many venues. He grew up in Texas, Connecticut, and California, but mostly Texas. He moved to Boston for grad school and married a Maine woman who wanted Maine back. He writes in the mornings to stay sane and keeps the books of the family business in afternoons.