holds no truck with comparisons. Holds no truck with anything
much besides sunlight and dust swirls and the breezy clip
-clop-clip of heels upon endless parquet. The Second Longest
Corridor does not deceive itself. Knows there are sidelong
glances, spindly remarks (also-ran, windy thing) from those who
complain that it drags on so — can’t take a hint, can’t just politely
trail off. (The Second Longest Corridor has never trailed off.)
Wends its way along and down and past and up, watching
the unkind comments disperse around its furthermost bend.
And if you were to ask corridor what do you love might it not
simply sigh and stretch and commend to you its windows
— how they catch the glint of birch after silvery birch.
