Write to

Submit.

Tired fingers and

the stench of burnt

grounds,

One line of text

repeating—

A cruel trick of the

eyes and

consciousness.

Why is it

Saturday and

Why am I

reading?

The hollow

thunk

of to-go

coffee cup

sleeves hitting

hard plastic

desktops,

Stupid half-answers to

stupid half-questions and

I see students half-conscious

clutching TI-83's in a

crescent line curving from the

high school's heavy doors.

Exactly as I planned it,

and my yellowed fingers stink.