After Sheep

There is quiet
in the brown
comforter,
peace tonight.

The coffee pot is
showing it’s blue
light pride in the
chalk board black
of the room.

Little fan on the desk,
hasn’t been turned off
since I got here.
That was eight weeks ago.

International students
sitting on cold concrete,
smoking their nights away,
the stale camel smell is wafting
through my window, I can almost
taste it.

And I’m just sitting here,
typing some bullshit poem,
hoping that the next one
will turn out better.

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