moments passed

moments passed Samantha Wilber

Poetry 12

3:34pm on a Tuesday Sitting across from the kid who bites his nails watching the professor sift through her notes thud

Coffee rings on the table; I always forget not to spill. The window frames the light slitted through the palm trees. The friction of pages turning softer than car engines on Okeechobee Boulevard. Voices of a symphony raised hands scribbles notes a backpack zips up and a pencil drops the door closes I call out your name, but you already have your headphones in.