Christopher Robin always fancied reading poetry. He enjoyed the rhythmic patterns and the flow from which words seemed to sail across paper. He enjoyed story books as well, especially those with pictures, but currently he was reading a collection of Sylvia Plath's poetry. Even if her demise was gruesome, Christopher quite enjoyed some of her words. He didn't quite understand them all, no, of course not--he was only fifteen and a half, after all! He just enjoyed how they sounded. With a small hum, he kicked out his legs, quite enjoying his time at the park so far. It was a nice change of pace, going in an area besides home or 100 Aker Wood, and this park bench was quite comfortable (despite the many words carved into it). Setting the book open on his lap, he reached over to his bag to pull out a pack of pretzels his mother packed for him. However, the book slid off his lap, landing on the ground with a thud, pages sticking out in awkward directions. Giving a huff, and small "Oh, dear." He placed the unopened package of pretzels between his legs, beginning to bend his spine so he would be able to get a hold of the book.