Gasp (1990s)

Gasp
Out of the depths of Dickson Hall, we hang,
swaggering near trails of cigarette butts
tossed aside the Humanities building. The stench
of lunch truck fries, grilled meat creeps into my stomach,
an empty pit. My mind digesting meals of stark Realism,
creative writing juices, rebellious Romanticism.

Mike yells, “Whaddaya need, cuz?”
A shivering figure asks for a black coffee,
gripping a crinkled dollar bill.
Winter gusts beat bundled figures outside
shelterless Dickson Hall. Ski caps pulled down low,
We crouch, grimace, stand ground.

Some go down in defeat, retreat,
long lines bracing away, but I stay,
my hands struggling to light a match.
A tall redhead has my fire. We stand, smoke, wait
for a can of Coke and chicken fingers.