It’s raining.
Sinister assaults on first semester classes,
the drops fall on red bricks.
I sit outside my dorm.
Excuse me, resident hall.
The puddles form in a forward moving
motion that the thought of
administration cannot match.
And I watch.
I watch as freshmen, sophomores, juniors, seniors
all move to solicitous classes,
each in a manner suggesting superiority…
worth. As if each is indeed worthwhile.
The classes, not the people.
The people who step in my puddles,
shattering the serenity of their surfaces.
And the drops hit me
And their feet pitter-patter
And the rain splashes free,
reminding my ruined reflection
that I’m just pitter-patter,
empty chatter.
