His pencil is trembling, drumming
a ceaseless best against the table.
The floor seems to be
pushing upward on his foot,
bouncing it as his mind
turns and twists and tumbles over him
as he searches and digs and claws
through his tired, panting brain,
for a savior, a saint, some sort of salvation,
an answer to a question
on a test that’s staring him in the face,
it’s I’s boring holes into him.
The walls, pulsating, and with every
shaky breath they take, they come in,