Pfahler

In the hallways are quietly languid footsteps,
The echoed clanging of keys and plastic rustling.
Intermittent indoor-speak is amplified by the curvature of the walls,
Ricocheting to my seat.
A sneeze is like a gunshot.
A hum resonates from behind the walls.
I like to imagine she’s a robot dragon doomed to this place,
With gears for reptilian legs and steam instead of smoke.
Her breath is too dusty for the faint of nose –
I hope among the grime I can find a single, glinting quarter for a drink.
Nothing shines here in the impregnable wall of shadow;
I will reach into the pitch.
It’s a dank, dull home we have, but
She gives us flashbulb screens and echoes.
The surface itches uncontrollably and
I still haven’t found my quarter.

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