In a university recently depopulated–
where a corridor was left with the shadowed shufflings of feet,
running to beat the mean 7:30am finish line–
to raise the hand, on cue,
just when one’s name was called.
There. There. On the class list.
They seldom hang out here. Seven voices in the morning,
Now, only two, late at night.
Or when they were hungry:
coins from dusty pockets
to give discount to hunger,
After which they played a game, barefooted.
Their soles, scorched by the burning grass–
They pass the notes of confessions, here.
How the library lacks distortion–
It needs more noise,
or slip them between musky pages,
between “occasion” and “occult”–
or, better, post them here,
on battered boards:
There is an unintentional garage sale–
–guarded by four sleepy cats.
We aptly named them John, Paul, George and Ringo.