Sparkatale

An exchanged of tightly folded paper between fingers
amongst the clicking of keypads, a light which illuminates
the underside of gum-stickied wooden desks, which tell
stories of occupants passed. Jotted notes to tests and
“I love Josh”, “Sara’s a slut”, and “fuck u whore” next
to the picture of a stick figure giving head. History books
torn at the edges, outdated and edited with a mustache
on Rosa Parks and enormous boobs on George Washington.
Dry erase ammonia squeak its way across the stained white board
an accompanied harmony with the plain wall clock hung above
the door. Its hand struggles its way around the never ending circle
twitching as it hits each numeral, keeping the beat of the melody.
A silence shattering drone of relief bounces between their ears
and a rock slide of bodies weave in and out, stop and go, 
to their next mind numbing destination.