Public Republic

Katherine Van Hook Gulley

Photo: Koshyk

He shoves his hands into his pockets,

for they have no where else to go.

The years of chalk dust and the smell of old volumes of Yates,

made a powerful cocktail that he drank even in leisure.

He rolls the chalk between his fingers,

as if to write his own meline into the new unknown.

He watches as the florescent lights breaths a twitching flicker.

The light falls on wood of desks and crown molding,

that in another life braved their last farewell,

as soldiers of the field.

The desk of marriage these long years,

with aging swollen draws stiff from use,

will become another’s remade bride.

Memories bounce on the tambour of the room.

The forgotten coffee left to cool,

as he was swept away in waves of lecture.

The boy who tonged his grit in Elliotts’ theater.

The girl who trove her voice in Bishops’ “Argument”.

All possibilities purchased with his paper days.

He notices the coldness of the door knob,

as he turns it one last time,

and whispers,

not shouts,

his academic goodbye.