the fine pale dust
that brushes off the chalkboard,
with never once a second glance
from the offending shirtsleeve,
lies silent. history of the world
floats in the air overhead:
vibrations like ghost footsteps down
the road not taken. perhaps the ceiling
would lend a familiar warmth; the floor
feels empty. the tepid mosaic tiles
in May and that restless tapping
of pencil on wooden desk: carved
lovesick letters of the alphabet;
restless like white chalk
on the blackboard, with every
period, comma and apostrophe,
losing time; losing life, two words
before the question mark.

T. E. Pyrus


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