A bell rings.

the herd stampedes. Dust

settles.

emptiness

A hundred boxes all in a row -

neat, locked, organized, private,

isolated.

The shoes echo in the hallway; the face

peers through the windows to see

a hundred blank faces all in a row -

neat, separated, organized, private,

isolated - with

a hundred no. 2 pencils poised over

a hundred empty sheets of paper.

The face, she sees

a hundred computers all in a row

spitting out data, printing out answers.

She does not try the knob but

stands

in the hall among

a hundred boxes all in a row.

A bell rings.

A hundred faces all in a row

rush to the hallway, to

a hundred boxes all in a row,

and place a hundred texts into

a hundred bags.

empty hall.

empty empty empty heads.

The grey blends together;

the faceless hundred exit and I

stand

amid a hundred empty boxes all in a row,

wiping the grey from my dusted face, letting the

rainbow of color free.

My box is full of

a hundred texts and

a hundred no. 2 pencils and

a hundred empty sheets of paper and

a hundred computers and

a hundred faces of

competition

isolation

education.

I place a copy of

Thoreau

into my backpack

and leave behind the

empty hallway and the

hundred empty boxes all in a row.

coffins.