Saturday, April 21, 2012

En Route to the College Library

A draft refreshes the corridor
As right foot follows left
Up a quintet of sticky steps,
And the steady tap of pacing shoes
Beyond, behind a corner passed,
Makes naked the fact
That here one cannot truly be alone.

And yet the goal is not,
As would be expected,
Company or chat,
But rather just to make the door
Before I’m forced to clear my throat.

I am cold.
My wallet, rasping open, echoes
The curse of lonely Velcro,
And a battered crow on a pike
Pecks at my shoulder-blade and back-
My wet umbrella screeched
As it was bagged, hastily closed.

A song from memory soothes me
As the fake plastic roof
Plays bubble-wrap to over-excited wind and rain,
And the draft sends waking shivers
Through an embarrassing hole in my jeans
As I side-step through one door
And stride toward the next.

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