Locked in the office, under stacks of papers, gold.
Shining through the dust, the cracks of age and exhaustion
Tales written as modern, and set long ago.
The news of the hour
Professors, now old, who then were so new.
Seniors and juniors now well in their fifties
Their voices remain on the page.
With gusto we sorted and put them in piles,
Academic years, falls and springs.
A Dean of Students spoke as a RD
President-future became president-present, then president-past.
As the years went on.
Our hands turned black with ink as we read.
Blackouts and busses
first years of old programs.
Old, starry eyes.
Eyes that have seen it all
Lost all respect their world had for them
They turn to me, as I look through their memories.
One hundred and fourteen years.
Will mine be the last?
The supernova, forcing the tired eyes to close forever?
Will Fall Writings 