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All PostsArtsPost-Groundbreaking

poem | Al Lim

photo | Public Affairs


Ngee Ann Kongsi, 2nd row, and I watched

how the ground was broken. Facebook,

many rows, and I watched how the fire

alarm was broken. La La Luna, middle row

and I was called out before the ukulele

finished playing. What happened after

the ground broke was a series of no-melts

from Shelagh’s pool to the Hangout Hotel. Traditions

were started every two seconds in the hopes of lasting

two centuries in tandem with wishing

more than 20 people would sign up for this thing

called Yahlehnoose, which wanted a Mudkip

Communist Student Gov at one point, waiting

for its evolution to halcyon. Adept

at deconstructing the iron cage, we

drowned out the sleeper’s snores and the myths

of Han Chinese/Israeli domination with talks

of a butterfly dreaming, as uniform as

elephant pants and a tanktop, represented

by another rc on Halloween, while

I watched yet another CSI assignment

done at Poptart and the dodging of yet

another complaint about ratch

skygardens (not) for smoking. I forgot

that cameras and memory last longer

than nights at Mambo, too busy listening

to complaints about how Yale lobster was

better than rc4 and how gr9 Marvin Chun was

and the was that is now has been

is the stomp article after we whipped our hair

back and forth, is the ivory tabula rasa written on

having taken the red pill and finding light (or not)

at the end of the rabbit hole. I watch

as you ready your caps to be thrown.



*Was this written for or about the seniors? Does that even matter? Thanks to the Class of 2017 for providing much of the inspiration behind this poem. Wherever you continue in life, know that this part of it is appreciated. All in all, it has been an immense honor to be part of your journey and have you be part of mine.

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