It is that season again, the best of times
And the worst of times; the best / worst of
Exchanges — depending on how you look.
Long, disciplined lines under PSU eyes
Take the paved paths the road to Pdn took.
Cos, he had said ‘impossible’ to ragging,
Cos, he had said his hotline’s open,
Cos, he had gone donned a vest, exercising,
Cos, he looks like a cat that knows,
The all knowing smile on my face grows.
And I wonder, who has been spared
‘Uni Initiation’ long ago, who got
Self-instated to the promised land:
What should I be feeling as they march them on
In a neat profile, all hand by hand?
Years after first seeing it happen,
The rag hasn’t changed, but the people
Have come and gone. The same unknown
Uncertainty, when queued up, would flicker
The same pulse curling stutter:
And what the lecturer tells you,
Upon a moment’s reflection, is that
There no such thing in the world as the ‘same’.
You have ‘similar’, of course; but a phenomenon
Once it runs its course is not retained.
I have grown old, I suppose, and it
Cannot be indifference; maybe, that’s why
Noone bothers beyond an academic interest.
It grows on you, it passes you through:
Just don’t look them in the eye (if I were you).
The marshaling super trouper
Gives me a suspecting eye;
Me heart’s beyond a goose bump,
For he ain’t the ‘same’ as
The same trouper the first week I came.
You may stare at me, you PSU dick,
But you come 8 years too late,
Just to stare from another world.
I’m an untouchable item, of a different orbit
And I sail like a ghost boat. I sail like Casper.
The long line ends, goes to where it is sent,
Under the protective wing, in muted song
Just the hushed tension of their long frills sing.
Marshal with walkie: as if a lingering after thought of
A uniformed bantamweight without a ring.