Jessai Flores
Paradiso
Halfway through the evening and night,
I found I was behind on work.
So with the face of fear in sight,
I faced responsibilities I once had shirked.
From the stairs outside Sterling Library,
I began my voyage feeling aloof.
A swipe of my ID but I still was wary,
‘Til I found myself under the golden roof.
I hastened myself to the elevators in back,
One more swipe and my journey carried me
To the Slavic Reading Room, not the Stacks.
Studiously ducked heads were all I could see.
I found my alcove and joined the silent crowd.
Laptop open, phone away, notebook out,
Working here, feeling inexplicably proud,
I realize this is the ethereal Yale many tout.
Lost in a CS pset, time slips away,
Head down, loving the grind,
Until, far too soon, I hear a voice say
It’s time to leave this heaven behind.
“The time is 11:45. The library and all
Library services close in fifteen minutes.
Thank you.” Is it that swift, the great Fall?
I’m expelled from these holy limits.
Purgatorio
Things packed away, riding the elevator
The slow descent begins
The quiet first floor reveals the hour’s later.
Time to pay for a procrastinator’s sins.
And then the descent continues some more,
Not into the cool night air
But instead sinking ‘neath the floor
Wondering what awaits me down there.
One floor under, the tunnel awaits,
Far removed from the pearly gates.
A pset’s late
I deserve this fate.
Head scrapes the ceiling,
I hate this feeling,
Sanity layers peeling,
In every which way, I find myself reeling.
There’s nothing here.
It’s all just dull.
Not joy, nor fear,
Just a purgatory full.
On and on the tunnel goes.
As I descend, my gait slows.
But alas I descend some more.
I finally arrive, beneath the floor.
Inferno
Awash in fluorescence.
I stumble in.
There’s a murmur, but it’s indistinct.
The monotony of readings, of essays, of psets
Derprive this place of its passion.
This is Bass,
Home of Satan, the Great Inferno
Where we go when we finally must learn-o.
But my descent doesn’t end here,
No, we fall even further.
Another layer beneath the Earth.
Natural light — or at this hour,
Darkness — no longer exists.
Just fluorescence
That blinds the soul.
Lower-floor Bass, we’re near the end.
But the time is grim,
Work must get done.
So I offer a prayer,
As I reach the seventh layer.
Single chair, single desk, single light.
We call it: “Depression Cubicle,”
Deep in the belly of the beast,
Final resting place of the deceased.