Some students taking tests,
their pencils poised in semi-unison
over the answer sheets before them,
like bows about to move in the string section
of a high school orchestra.
They haven’t yet recognized the blankness
of the enterprise, manualed and supervised
to the last digit on their pale green forms.
There’s a large clock standing upright
on the proctor’s desk.
Its wrapping stripped away,
it glares in Chaplinesque aplomb,
the little mustached hands
moving across its grinless face
like some rotund, gesticulating dictator.
More poetry from Askold Skalsky
Askold Skalasky is a former community college professor, whose poems have appeared in numerous small press magazines and journals, most recently in freefall and The Dos Passos Review.