By Flynn Murtaugh '20
An island of quiet.
It makes the paint chips break
That much louder.
Even the wind seems to have an opinion on the bricks that have fallen out.
The cracks in the wall,
Deep enough for me to stuff
My hidden jealousy
Of the aging building into.
The steam still rising from the laundry chamber,
The smell of scrubbed sheets
Imbedded in the wooden planks that are now the rotten ceiling.
Splintered pigmentation, as vibrant as if the complete color
Is still lurking behind the levee of metal.
Feelings occupy rooms,
And whispers are shoved into your veins.
Chairs face the wall,
Legs so fragile they would break
If a thought touched down upon them.
Filing cabinets,
Flung in the middle of corridors,
The shelves swung out
As if the world was tilted,
And then frozen on that crooked axis.
Doors,
Cold to the touch still open.
The frame
Unaccompanied by its matching glass pane.
How long you could stay,
Sit in a room with one wall missing,
Feet hanging off the edge.
The disturbing comfort
would almost be enough to keep you there forever.
How many other people remain here?
I wonder.