what happens when I read bulletin boards...

Today was my last poetry class.

Before I slid my backpack across the table I always sit at, before I unwound my cashmere scarf, before I found my squished peanut butter sandwich under my poetry books, I read a flyer on the bulletin board across from the door of Heavilon 206.

A poetry reading by the seniors was proclaimed. The date looked remarkably familiar; it was the same one as was scrawled across the container of today's lemons in the vegetable fridge at work. The time was also suspiciously at home. It was the same as the one pencilled in beside "ENGL 237H" in my planner.

And so, as I gave my backpack a toss and unwound my scarf and searched for food, I told Chazz about the flyer and saw the same spark in her eye as I felt in mine. "Maybe we can..." "Maybe he'll let us..."

Punctually four minutes late, Professor Morris set down his diet Sprite and stack of books and papers. He expounded on specific directions for putting final papers and neat, final copies of journals in a box outside his office. He began to messify the stack of books and papers across his desk as he began to speak of the poems listed for today's discussion.

I raised my hand unabashedly to the ceiling.

He was still spreading things around and did not see me. Jason laughed because he knew what I was going to say. I gave up on grade school courtesy and said, "Excuse me?"

I used a lot of qualifiers. I said "maybe we could" and "part of class" and "I think room 320."

"Well, class, would you like to spend our whole class there." He had forgotten to use a question mark and he was already closing his books and standing up.

The room was cramped and the seniors' eyes widened as we overflowed into it, ten minutes late. The bearded student at the front of the room paused but continued. I crammed into a corner on the floor and listened, for nearly an hour, as words in beautiful arrangements and some not so beautiful flowed out of eager and nervous and proud mouths.

Afterwards I leaned against the railing in the sunniest stairwell on campus (tell me again why don't people like Heavilon?), my finger dialing Eleni, my eyes looking through Wetherill at something no one will ever see, my thoughts wondering...what can I do with words? Can I manipulate them the way I manipulate people?





Dude, I dig poetry class.