Radioactive Bob

Bob peered through thick glasses, watching
as bleary eyed students poured into the lecture hall
until it was filled to the brim.

The bell rang, and he began his monotonous chore
of scratching an illegible language onto a dusty black expanse,
dutifully turning the emptiness into wavy lines of
incomprehensible characters
as he droned on and on
about poor small bunnies caught up in mudslides, lithified
and now pumped into our glimmering SUVs,
loesses, composed mainly
of wind deposited, air breathing snails,
and the dry and barren deserts
in the nothingness of western Kansas.

The count of sleeping students rose,
1… 3… 4… 7… its time
“LAVA,” his foot crashed to the floor, disturbing their slumber
“becomes either aa or pahoihoi…”
Eyelids drooped again.

The lights dimmed as giant pictures of unearthly
scenes flashed by at the front of the room.
Bob whacked the screen, pointing out the massive
pencil length boulders from every corner of the world
and sighed inwardly to himself.
He had found those trips and specimens so fascinating.

As the bell rang and the lights glared back on,
he reflected on his illustrious career and
watched uncaring students shuffle past.
“Tomorrow,” he thought, “I’ll try again tomorrow.”
And resolutely began to gather his things.