Professor once, emeritus now,
he bends over his files –
old files boxed in old oak –
pulls them out by their worn tabs –
tosses bunches, small and large into the fire
in a hurry, with august anger,
and a self-mocking grin.
“That’s that for that,” he chortles,
clearing out obsolescence.
There’s a long pause before some premonition
swings into focus.
“One ending need not presage another”
is another sentence he likes to repeat.
So, he sits straight-backed,
his fingers twiddling,
practicing with his yo-yo
and conjuring time beyond limits
where, through the doors of the laboratory,
mice sing, men chirp, and women romance the moon,
while mouthing aloud a randy tune.