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Graduation


by Anthony M. Powers


a light breeze slips in through the window,
whispering,
paling in comparison to
the shirtless neighbors grunting
and soaked in p.b.r.
and the guy from across the street,
the one who went to finishing schools his entire life,
is still
down
stairs 
and is drinking my 5th beer in the past 20 minutes.
and one of my roommates just walked past my door
with that skinny, pale girl on his arm.
and my roommates' parents have given the others cards
stuffed with checks
or twenties
but i was left out of it
because at the very least
they knew my parents wouldn't give much,
although i think there's more to it than that.
and i'm almost out of cigarettes,
and fireworks and sorority girls
scream
from down the street.
and still i smile
because tonight
over the dull roar of college life
and the echos of shallow ecstasy,
masked by the ringing of security sirens
and the giggling of pretty girls i never kissed,
i hear a voice
like soft thunder
reminding me
this
is
the
end.
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