West Hall is filled with geriatrics;
It seems the people that fill these offices,
Not one is under the age of fifty.
Older women dressed in sweaters and slacks
With Black Hills Gold earrings
And oversized gaudy necklaces
Dyed, perfectly styled hair.
Their desks strewn with pictures
Of children, and grandchildren
And comedic cats.
There is an office door which is almost always closed.
R. Whalen states the plaque.
The door when open, reveals an ancient man
In his eighties
His balding, liver spotted head
Resting on his chest in an afternoon nap.
Wearing a dignified navy blue sweater vest
Looking the part of the retired professor.
I wonder if he passed away, in his sleep
In that hot cramped office, would people notice
Or think he was merely napping?