It’s strangely beautiful to see a dormitory building catch fire,
to see a gaggle of frightened, cold faces, huddled in a line,
permit themselves to be herded into a cramped lounge.

I call their names, one by one, to calmly inquire about any stragglers.
They’re all so proud of my voice, my words and poise earn a round of applause,
but my smile is for the simple sound of relaxation, camaraderie.
Floors of sound-proofed doors of isolation join together, making friends,
three homophobic Indian men sleep, their heads resting on each other, at peace.

We restlessly try to sleep, watching the dawn break. People huddle together,
sharing blankets with strangers, playing cards with newfound brothers,
giggling with new girlfriends. A pair of women, foreign to us and to each other,
play an astounding Handel concerto on the piano in the corner.
The gentle cheers of crusted eyes fills the room.

The whispers of impatience are drowned by growling stomachs.
The growling is dwarfed by the shining light of human goodwill.
The Red Cross comes to cheerily deliver some snacks to exhausted hands
and the cafeteria manager gladly drives her cooks to let us in,
hours after closing.

The sun is shining as they emerge.
I’m returning with breakfast, but they’re getting to eat for free.
There are some new friends who chatter, but most return to their lives,
with nothing more than a relieved silence.
The incident is over, everyone can go back to their own rooms.
The World Cup is on. We’re watching with our own friends.
Everyone drifts apart, scattering their ashes to the winds.

06/27/2010

Author's Note: http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=%2Fbaycitynews%2Fa%2F2010%2F06%2F26%2Fdorm26.DTL

Posted on 06/28/2010
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