Room 11b
Windowpane of frosted glass;
shove shoulder against door to enter.
Floor dusty; instant cough-cough.
Benches with lathes, some smaller tools:
rasps, files, t'other things;
ones that have squiggly steel tips
and humongous yellow handles.
Carry on carving fish, sandpaper smooth
the dorsal fin. He says "can take home".
Hold it up high, happy, smile, saunter away.
Gazing down at now lowered
hand, see it looks like a ping-pong paddle.
Ho-hum. No more room 11b -
for it's my last day.
shove shoulder against door to enter.
Floor dusty; instant cough-cough.
Benches with lathes, some smaller tools:
rasps, files, t'other things;
ones that have squiggly steel tips
and humongous yellow handles.
Carry on carving fish, sandpaper smooth
the dorsal fin. He says "can take home".
Hold it up high, happy, smile, saunter away.
Gazing down at now lowered
hand, see it looks like a ping-pong paddle.
Ho-hum. No more room 11b -
for it's my last day.
This poem is copyright (©) Jill Vance 2026
About the Writer
Jill Vance
Jill Vance is a poet and interdisciplinary artist. Her poems have appeared in Truth Serum Press, Pure Slush and Green Ink Poetry. She hopes one day to have a pamphlet published of poetry and artwork.
