He had Saint Vincent in his ears.
Opening the door to the arts building,
his home for 5 years & just 2 more weeks.
He talked to every professor who for
at least a semester had become a hero,
an ambassador to something he’d secretly
(always) assumed was beyond his grasp.
He sat in the light of room 3018.
It was his favorite room. He was
unsure, if this was because his arm
bore a tattoo that said “f8”
from his 18 year old
dream of writing in a few strokes
to the overall litany and canon,
or because he had met the Englishwoman
who gave him the power to read Hardy,
Dickens, Austen and even Gaskill,
He wrote that night all across the city.
He made the best of everything.
It was practically art, already.
He just had to kiss it off his palm.