3:48 PM Saturday, Class of 1945 Library

From left to right and back again they swing:

The golden disks, the pendulums depended.

Indifferent to those who onward tread,

They click in perfect time, in time unending.

At three o’clock I hear them start to sing,

Which breaks their spell; for them, I’m sure it’s splendid.

I look back up to find the rest have fled,

While I, like most, remain in text extending.

The building closes far before I’m ready—

What would have been a pleasant afternoon

Has bent to feed the fallen hopes so costly.

While hours stretch to fill the finite queue,

Unanswered are the questions posed before me:

My work remains in blinking cursors blue.