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Marilyn McComas

Assessing the Scene

Seeing Gothic haunts I thought I'd long ago conquered
and finding they dwarf me, I stand, shivery,
like a teen on the brink of admissions, unsure
I'll be able to cope. Everywhere, finite images,
stored for three decades, explode in my face
like raw lies, are supplanted by sprawl, lawns
where students, backpacked and sprinting, treat me
as if I don't count. It hurts to resemble dour professors,
now demolished by age, to know nothing
I say or do can make me seem modern in the eyes
of this crowd. All I want, I tell them,
in this city in a city where corridors snake
toward additions that awe me, is to retrace where
I've been, revisit landmarks that prey like lost truths
I desire. I need to forget I'm a shadow
of my juvenile self and succeed without sleep
as I did then, ace exams like a pro,
act immortal and really believe it.