Erin

Scurrying through the halls

Like a mutt dashing for leftovers

Is Erin.

She edges past the crowd, some how

Wedging her way through the mass

Of solidly cramped people without

The slightest of contact.

Her short but sturdy frame is not denied

By any blockage of motion, for she

Molds perfectly under the crevices

Of folded arms,

Carefully trudging with her overweight backpack,

Bloated with books

Like her head is obese with knowledge.

The glasses on her Irish face frame

A pair of deep-set eyes,

Which glare out coldly in their dark emerald hue

From behind a shield of transparent glasses

This face is framed by long, dark auburn hair

Which hangs limp and straight on the side of her head

However, this proud display of fur does

Not carry onto her eyebrows,

Which lay naked in the contour of her

Blemish speckled face

This is Erin, this is who she is

But now she’s gone again, already halfway down

The hallway, a midget speck in the distance.