He talked to himself in the library,
twisting his hands,
mumbling under his breath.
Standing beneath a small window
placed too high,
he could see nothing but a piece of sky.
Every now and again
he would turn toward the magazines
before looking once again at the clouds,
whispering to himself and running his stained fingers
through limp, unwashed hair.
A women with her head bent down
intent on studying, gazed at him annoyingly,
breathing out an irritated sigh,
tapping her pencil on the table sharply.
He did not turn around,
continuing his own conversation,
deep in a world she could not touch.
Another woman walked over to him
just as disheveled, and tugged at his sleeve,
insistant that he come with her.
"The bus, the bus is here," she said,
speaking with urgency, pulling him roughly,
her voice growing louder.
"The clock is ticking," he said
"It is ticking away..."
Angela Minard 2012©