On Skipping Class

The best of them have done it,
no matter what they say.
They ditched an English class
or history lecture –
that old archaic fart that drools
while droning with spittle
in the darker crevices of his face.
They’ve held the beach
upon the scales, and when found
their textbook wanting,
have cast their work away.
Even Hawking, I’m certain,
tottered between beer and astrophysics,
and Franciscan friars,
turned their eyes away from heaven to
look down at the beauty
all around.
On warm, inviting spring afternoons,
when a cool dew from the lifted morning fog
still lies naked on the grass,
when that high perched glowing orb
wraps its fingers around your will,
what is left to do?

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry