The students are at my digital door
With a pixilated battering ram
That flickers upon impact.
One of them makes it into the room.
We sit in boxes side by side
Like boxes of fruit under awnings.
Both of us are looking at me.
When I ask her what she is
Going to do after graduation,
She tells me she has tech money
Waiting on deck, and the poem
Of hers we’re looking at together
Dims a little. I don’t have the energy
To help her make it stronger.
It can remain mediocre.
She has tech money waiting
On deck. As for me, it seems
Every year I grow
Less and less invested.
What a world!