The End of the Tour film ends,
David Foster Wallace dances
In the Baptist church, and
We all stand to chat,
Grateful for the extra credit.
But our professor still sits,
Hand over his mouth,
Alone at the back of the room.
His glasses glint with the reflections
Of the final credits.
And I watch him for a moment.
I want to talk to him, curious about
The silence he's accrued,
As Wallace dances into the darkness,
As we plod out back to Wheaton's world.
In my mind, he sits there still. No posts