I hear the door creak and squeak

and passers-by go by
along and down the corridor 
their student lives spent
in transit, in a hall or on
a 'phone, or in a lecture room

and in the dull, calm gloom
of my own room
I sit and contemplate
their young feet their energy
so near my door
so far away from all I hope
for them and me and all

their youth is cold,
a callousness infilled with
naivete, too sharp too posed,
their lives are sticklebacks to fashion and
the know, a strange mix of allophones,
a colour-coded chart of what's
acceptable, behaviour manual
thought-out over 80/- and cigarettes
with Nirvana on CD
a million light-years from me
these floating diamond mines of
minds that thump their bodies
past my door
within reach
but out of it
the door
a touch too
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