At the end of the day,
the cafeteria fills
to the brim with children
waiting their turn home.
Teachers line the walls
of the overflowing tables.
Every kid sits in assigned
seats; they must sit
or no one goes home.
A rock concert without
music, it’s surprising
anyone can hear themselves.
There’s a man on a mic
letting rows loose
based on how well
their table sits;
adolescents file out
of a pointed out row,
packs in their hands.
Everything reverberates
with the color of sour milk:
florescence dry out
Playdough a student
brought for a science
experiment, leaving it
without a second thought.
Rows continue to file out
with great prejudice;
no one can tell the difference
between a half empty—
or a half-full—
cafeteria.
A substitute talks with
a PE teacher and asks
what they’re doing.
“When do we ever
know what we’re doing
here?” He laughs,
and some of the
young adults feel
he’s laughing at them.
The rows empty out,
the tables are clean,
except for a dried pile
of playdough, no longer
elastic or mushy—dried out
from the lights.
Cartons of spilt chocolate milk
waste themselves
onto the floor between
the cracks of the cafeteria
tiles.
YOU ARE READING
Responsibility (And Other Scary Monsters)
PoesiaPoems of an ever expanding world and the single soul that sees it through different lenses.
