campus
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This is going to be a problem
I think as I stare across the room on the third floor
Eyeing the last tenant to enter the apartment.
She’s nothing like what I’ve seen before
Her hair,
At the early hour
Hearts are still
Echos are devoured
The air is chill
This campus is not hers
She's not the right kind
But she just wants
To get to class on time
The smells of paper, pen and pencil
Complemented by the sounds of the rush
Of students new and old
Of professors young and old
Inhabiting this temporary world
Of classes, grades and growth.
Pillows of cotton settle
drifting like ghosts
masking the view of towering stone
hair curling in the palpable air
drooping eyelids, heavy breath
heels on concrete clicking in step
Look Up
And see the
big
red
building
spreading out in front of you
like a horizon
begging you
to reach out
and touch it.
Home.
And you stand
No room
Last resort
Loud bang
Pothole shakes the car
Cracked asphalt
Hot under the sun
Late again
Stop
Find a spot
Trudge to class
Through green forested path
