A poem
The smoky dial on my gray locker
spins and spins. It gets stuck again.
I watch pale faces
pass me in the hall.
I search for a name
to put to a face, but they all look
the same. The ghost white
floor starts to shimmer as
snaking veins bubble from
whitewashed walls,
pulsing as though a human heart
had possessed them.
They morph into
scraggly white vines
whose tendrils wrap around
students’ bone white ankle socks.
The students merely
glance at each other
as they are pulled, limp as dishrags,
into the wall. Their silent faces
echo from bumps on the ceiling.
I step on the vine
that reaches for me.
It squeals as I
stroll outside.
