Tossing Chairs Poem by Matt Mondschein

four hundred to be exact
onto rolling racks
perfectly to be stacked

every single, solitary night
tossing chairs
until the dawns' early light

I often must gaze
with my head in the air
peeking upward in wild wonder

toothpicks in the ceiling
are you freaking kidding me
is this a modern aged college genius
who fail to see

is this why we're here to clean
to clean up after pompous kids
oh well, I guess it is what it is
little aged souls
being little punks
whipping broken bread crumbs into
little chunks