Eleven 29 o’clock in the evening and the room is still a mess.
Basketball shoes, running shoes, Gatorade bottles and
Torn-up papers from last semester probably strewn across
The floor like deserted strangers, unnecessarily flung into abyssal
Apocalyptic wastelands of trash heaps and garbage disposals.
Eleven at night and there’s nothing to drink up but the Gatorade,
And the sounds of drunken relentless birthday sex ringing
Across the room from yesterday at eleven 29 o’clock.