Lying In An Empty Hallway

How often
Have I laid my lazy crown
Upon a rolled up sweater
On top of my satchel
Eyes heavy with slumber
Unused the previous night
Which was spent bent like a hunchback
Over volumes that concern those who charge me
Cross my legs so as to appear relaxed
To any observant passerby
Rather than spread and sprawl
In the positions of true sleep
My eyes, freed of glasses (which lie near my head)
Squint to see the
Miniscule patterns
That appear upon close inspection
Of these cinderblock walls
(All covered with the same plastic paint
Of an off white
The world over
One wonders if they come in any other style)
In them
I see vast landscapes
Filled with tiny men
Going about tiny business
Smooth white hills are their home
Circular dips and drips
They are not so different from me
I think
I think
I’d like to be one of them.

by Peter Timothy McQueeny

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