i am reading poetry aloud to myself,
pacing the length of my small dorm room
until my feet hurt in the sneakers i still haven't taken off
and my spine feels the weight of the day.
someone down the hall yells something unintelligible,
and i think about the hockey game i have just returned from,
the way the energy i couldn't soak up
in the cold rink
has followed me home and opened this book of poems for me
and centered itself into the small of my back,
knotting just behind my forehead.
i read billy collins until i am sick of my own voice,
until i am just saying the words,
incapable of pulling the poems up from their binding,
staring down at the small letters like sports fans sitting across the ice,
frozen in boredom when no one scores
and no fights break out.