After Hours

“Goodnight room. Goodnight moon.
Goodnight cow jumping over the moon.
Goodnight light, and the red balloon…”
Goodnight Moon, Margaret Wise Brown
There are no songs now.
There are no classes. Only
locked doors, up-ended chairs,
a slow dance of hanging mobiles.
The Fire Exit man
perpetually flees the scene
of a green crime, never
making it to the white door.
The printer in the corner
will not stop talking to itself,
coming up with equations
and small coloured lights.
The word left scrawled
is having its wicked way,
meaning all kinds of things
on the blackboard.
The tad-poles in jars
beat against the glass
at the potted sun-flowers
which surround them.
The un-capped pen is propped
on a pile of exam papers
which acts like a sponge, slowly
soaking up the dark blue ink.
Beneath the floorboards –
amongst curlicues
of pencil shavings,
well-thumbed Top Trump cards,
nubs of rubbers
and the cataracts of pre-war marbles –
enough spilt mercury
to topple an elephant.

Ben Maier