Stanford Spotlight: Andrew Bakst
The sophomore and Product Design major from New York writes poetry in his spare time
Two of his pieces for week 3 woes:
The League
One cannot deny the pride of being found,
of having your friend look you in the eye
and smile and say I got ya. But once I
was never caught, and my heart joined
the lost jewels of the Titanic as I
hid behind the shades with my back pressed
against the glass. I waited and waited and
a slice of me wanted to reveal myself,
but I had to honor the game
and wait some more. I lost track of the ticks
and eventually decided to quit, but before I
pushed aside the shade, I turned my head and looked
outside, to see a kid in the building across the street,
face pressed against the glass, just like me.
A Quickie
Close your eyes,
the gun pressed hard against the back
of your neck is irritating
your skin. You would worry about getting a rash,
but in a coffin no one sees the back of your neck,
only your petered face, petered by the hands of
doctors and governors. Maybe if your mom held your hand
a little longer or your dad stopped filling his veins
with the coins from the casino floor, you
would have been able to graduate and buy
yourself a doorman and a black lab whose black fur
could only be rivaled in splendor and softness
by the gun whose trigger you pulled earlier this week,
not thinking of the consequences.