In The Quiet Of Afternoon Rain Poem by James Browning Kepple

I scurry to the library, where I can caress these keys,
the yellowing turn of leaves, the embrace of warm chairs,
for outside of my car and consumptive cans of beer, I can come here
bring my Langston Hughes I have hidden in canister,
to talk about the olden days of Marduk and Pagans,
he is always squiggling about the top, to pry his fingers in my crotch,
no langston, back off the wally pop! were trying to read,
and it goes on like this, the fat drops of spring,
the heated moments of adventure scanned out from aged eyes,

it makes one really treasure those few moments of literature
where we still had the hope, the pie in the sky drive,
the downright awnry messy cover divulge,
splitting the line for line for line,
on quiet monday rains we can no longer garden our hands into the earth,
but reach out into the furtive dust of page,
to lay down in our brains the simple knowledge of truth
that we've been splurging and pissing out in trains,

and hold within our momentary return to the roots,
the pleasure of having hidden books in these alcoves of lust
dotting the battered cityscapes, molesting our inner poetry,
and hop away cold and guided, wet and enlightened
that in the fat drop of our sins, we can indulge here in,
the lost worlds of our brethrens pen