After Commencement

Old Thompson's self-important shout,
Professors shout, is all that echoes
Through these newly vacant halls.
The year is done, the students gone,
And Thompson's telling other geezers
How he plans to spend his break.
Each word is one he's said before.
Each inch of this old campus, with
Its lawns, and brooding Gothic halls,
And out-of-place, but cheaper glassy
Cubes, each season's stately movement,
Sunny fall to bitter winter, giddy
Spring, and then this sudden temporary
Humid death, is known to me. It's sad
To see the cycle at its end again, but
Comforting to understand that
Nothing's really changed. The cycle
Will resume in August. Someone else,
It could be me, will drone when
Thompson's gone.




Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 48 times
Written on 2010-05-26 at 13:44

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