First day of school.

Like a constipated 
mule, the old man
limps toward me

saying, The end is
near—the words 
sliding from his mouth              

like congealed bacon
fat, then the young 
woman emerges from 

the churning sea—her 
auburn hair, alabaster, 
almost translucent

naked skin, fearless
like thunder, casting 
a long shadow—The 

world ended long 
ago, she says, and
we walk onto the

emerald green great 
lawn, her in the old
man’s cerulean

sky-colored overcoat,
and she points to the 
tower—figures falling 

from its large windows—
Fear of truth, she asserts
referring to the bodies

smashing like overly ripe
melons on the ground,
then she says, Your

classroom is on the 
sixth floor, and as I 
open the heavy door

she states, The class
is on how unnecessary
the class is—then adds

Be alert. Stay aware.
Be vigilant. Always
look inward and

please do try and not
stumble or trip near
an open window, sir.