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.