I am fifty-five years old, balding and bespectacled.
During the day, I attend the university in pursuit of my bachelor's degree.
I arrive at noon, and the campus lawn looks like Botticelli's Springtime.
Young and vibrant bodies lay out on the grass, half-naked and concupiscent.
They wear smiles and acne and peach fuzz.
I wear an argyle sweater and kakis.
I want to walk over and touch their heads like a priest does a congregation.
The Neoclassical architecture provides the setting.
So much so, that I can never locate McCone Hall.
The building name should appear on all four sides, I think,
Not just on one, in letters the size of masking tape.
Like a tourist, I ask the young and vibrant bodies for assistance.
They have iphones, digital maps, and still, they point me in the wrong direction.
I forgive them instantly.
I'm sure the Greeks confused the Acropolis buildings during their time.
After passing the Parthenon and the Temple of Athena,
I locate the English Building nestled inside a grove of oak trees.
Before class, a fellow student meets me outside the room.
He sits with his back arched over, neck extended like a sunbathing turtle.
He always finishes his homework and yearns to discuss it.
Not gloat or dictate, but toss plotlines back and forth primus inter pares.
All insecurities immediately drown in literary criticism.
Like me, he's bald and wears glasses, but with a hearing-aid.
His pants are hiked up to the navel.
Mine are hiked up too, but not that far.
He squints while speaking, and leans in so close I can see the cracks on his lip.
He admires Hester Prynne, Holden Caufield and the Invisible Man.
I admire Dimmesdale, Mr. Spencer and him,
But he hasn't appeared in any fiction yet.
When its time, we enter the class and look around the room.
Some students quiet down, thinking he is going to teach.
He grins, passing the podium where he takes a seat in the front row.
I watch him and follow.
He removes his notebook from a satchel.
I remove mine from a briefcase.
The seats are tiny and our legs touch together at the knees.
We are comfortable, and we whisper to each other like we are at the movies.
Our whispers mix with the laughter and the murmurs,
With the clicking keyboards and the beeping cell phones.
The sounds rise and drift out of the open windows,
Through the oaks and over the buildings,
And disappear into the blue sky.