Beside a fallen statue of King David, I sit,
watching students learning to survey the land,
perhaps as part of a business development class.
But me, I am writing,
with a heavy head,
dwelling on a couple images:
A newly-drilled oil well
spewing black rot
over orange groves, and
An ariel photograph of Orange County,
the land cut and sold and
packaged and commodified
into something entirely
man-made.
I sit and write,
while faculty hold signs
outside University Hall that read:
“Will teach for food.”
Outside the Humanities building
students rally for ethnic studies,
their faces painted in the
half-skeletons of
Dia De Los Muertos.
Our Lady of Sorrows
and the long dark night,
Have mercy.
I sit beside the fallen monument,
watching students trickling
in and out of the library,
thinking:
If there is any hope,
it is in these students
and this library.
