Angela M. Kayl
Tuesday, mid-afternoon,
Grooved slate towers embrace 
Our prison of thought.
Blue spirals screw their way into
A weighty cotton sky.

anxious gentleman
captive of the clothbound
nudges the frames up the bridge of
his steep and sloping nose
waging a dusty war against youthful complacency.

Wisdom is folly, all art is useless.

his usual class of forty
is today a class of twenty 
but the price of privilege 
is a generation lost.

tonight these twenty nodding heads will produce
twenty well-organized essays of proper
format and flawless comma placement, same words,
different names.

three masculine girls frame the south side doorway,
sucking the calm from a fresh pack of Reds
breathing rhythmic and unaware

a thick blond passes by 
giggling madly at what she doesn't 
slowly slurping the layers from a lollipop

a prim secretary with lips pursed 
wears her bun so tight that she squints
and can't see the things she criticizes.
not clearly, anyway.
she wonders where it all went wrong,
when the lines that defined her identity
were erased

a willowy young man 
with pencil lead eyes
and slippery lips
cradles the sweet of his tongue
as he strolls to class
fingering the blade
nestled in the linty pocket
of his jeans,
praying to God
that nobody finds out.