Student Union

It always resembles a scene from a bad play,

With too many actors and no direction.

Everyone speaks at once and what they say

Is lost in the general conversation.

Still, they strike poses, heads high, lips curled,

Eyes meaningful; they know who they are,

And the name of the little comedy in which they star.

They are the heirs to all the knowledge in this world.

And even at this intermission they remember the stage,

And play to each other. The music majors hum,

The journalists discuss the front page,

The engineers calculate the angle of the portal

And shake their heads and draw a better diagram.

The psychologists put a new label

On those who are intelligent and know it.

The economists make wagers,

The philosophy majors

Speak airily of death, and the self-conscious poets

Doodle themselves immortal

In spilled coffee on the table.