empty classroom

the air smells like sweat

odd

is thinking really that taxing?

a pen lies forgotten on the floor

newspaper stows away in a chair rack

the passers-by hem in the halls outside

slowly our number grows

we are not silent

but do not deign to speak

each holds claim to his sacred island

of personal space

and this includes the airwaves

air conditioners hum

lights buzz quietly

fragments and ghosts of forgotten messages

grace the brownboard

tall and skinny enters

looking much like the folded umbrella he carries

we await the arrival of the midget ancient

who will imprison us then set us free …