The night, which is wet,
Stares at me through the round rubbery raindrops
Which stick loosely, to the window.
People scratch their heads, which wear headphones
Which are red and black and blue.
The halfhearted humming which hovers over from the printer, which is warm and
Longing for someone, to come and to press its buttons.
Someone walks out the door, which gives out a squeak, which is
Lonely and timid, which is like a sneeze you cannot hold in.
The coughing of someone, which is phlegmy.
The library, the passing of time, the lined paper, which are waiting
For me to write a poem, which is hard.