At the end of the day,

the cafeteria fills

to the brim with children

waiting their turn home.

Teachers line the walls

of the overflowing tables.

Every kid sits in assigned

seats; they must sit

or no one goes home.

A rock concert without

music, it’s surprising

anyone can hear themselves.

There’s a man on a mic

letting rows loose

based on how well                                

their table sits;

adolescents file out

of a pointed out row,

packs in their hands.

Everything reverberates

with the color of sour milk:

florescence dry out

Playdough a student

brought for a science

experiment, leaving it

without a second thought.

Rows continue to file out

with great prejudice;

no one can tell the difference

between a half empty—

or a half-full—

cafeteria.

A substitute talks with

a PE teacher and asks

what they’re doing.

“When do we ever

know what we’re doing

here?”  He laughs,

and some of the

young adults feel

he’s laughing at them.

The rows empty out,

the tables are clean,

except for a dried pile

of playdough, no longer

elastic or mushy—dried out

from the lights.

Cartons of spilt chocolate milk

waste themselves

onto the floor between

the cracks of the cafeteria

tiles.