The Last Paper

comes to me in
the hand of the last student
on campus.

Everybody else is gone.
I curse myself again
for working late
and being there when
the last page of this
paper spat out
of the printer and
began its dash from
dorm to office.

The birds are singing in
the trees in my head
and my head is in
the trees with the birds. 
Tired?  Did I say
tired?  Let me lie back
in my nest and
contemplate that.

Oh. 

Yes. 

The student
is standing there in
the birdsong with
his paper.

Grades due tomorrow.
Hundreds of numbers to add
and divide and add again.
If I make a mistake,
the paperwork will crawl
between offices for months.

The trees in the birds in
my head are singing Hosannah
to the summer, and yes
I guess I’ll take your late
paper but I’ll have to
knock a few points off
because, uhm.. . .

The sudent nods and flees.
The paper in my hand
wants to fly away, too.