Fake Composure

I piled the books up beside me,
wished they could be a fortress.
None of the text meant a thing when I opened the covers.
So I rocked forward, tipped backward
tapped the cool stone floor
(As a stranger picked up her books to stand up and leave.)
with bare feet.
wobbly tears unshed (Still.) and
unnoticed by the lady sitting in the corner,
the lady with the shaved head who sighed into
tense silence, in slowly stretching intervals.
Through glass doors sit nice old men, slouchy boys.
Their eyes flick rapidly. The automated clock doles out
Their time remaining.
I could hear summer through the bug screen. I watched
Tiny movements in the garden and decided nature
could be so much more idyllic through a screen.
I studied the sky for the first time in weeks
Gradually I decompress, forget for one small moment.
The odd case of tunnel vision was gone.
The music. It came from the lady’s screen.