Crushed plastic bottles like deflated
lungs limp in the recycle bins;
refracting light through clear space
while casting shadows behind
webbed points of weakness.
I am watching them, no longer
able to hear the speaker
at the front of the room.
Ignoring the time that rotates
In five second increments;
along with minutes and hours.
Blood leaks from under my fingernails
staining bleached paper with scarlet blots,
between the lines.
Behind the blinds there is a shadow
cut out of the cloudy sun;
the panes meeting as a cross
set like a downward thumb.
A Girl’s maroon jacket hanging from the back
of her chair rapidly drips rain into a puddle,
making the meeting of the tiles
disconnect from their place on the floor.
This isn’t funny anymore.
Teleporting Typewriter 