For Angelo

You decline.
It is class, and the nouns of ancient tongue clatter and clash
within your brain.
The nuance escapes of vocative interogative ablative instrumental.
And more of a bearded teacher grown, with age, swirled
and temperamental.
And if you were so inclined,
a flashing smile might win more than your mind.
Whether you are a boy or girl,
would not matter to him at this point.

You decline.
In the class rankings with this semester,
bloated on the food, and blissful risking trimester.
The finals were spent with sun and sand,
rather than in library cloister.
Your words are not tight, but out of hand
poured on page, to quickly scatter.
But what does it really matter?
As a sophmore, the world's an oyster.

You decline.
The offer is not fat enough,
the workload seems large and rough,
the boss is absolutely to gruff.
You're in demand, so why work, when you can slough.
But there are shadows closing in,
is this the only place there is to win?

It is twilight, and the second self has left,
you sit there drinking, alone, and berift.
The choices are simple, and of a time,
do you stand and live,
or do you decline?