Light shines off the lines of old paint brush strokes on smudged oil paint,
Vintage bubbles, worn from countless fingers, notebooks, pencils,
the accruements of learning, teaching, and thinking.
I can imagine the hands that painted these surfaces,
These old desks, missing drawers, staggered six feet from each other,
Social distanced under the gaze of outdated television screens,
Confined within these walls, peeling paint, under stained ceiling tiles.
Those hands were tired, they held the brush with a practiced hand that wasn't dried out from hand sanitizer,
They spilt paint on the floor, left stains, let paint run down the sides of the desks -
Those trails still stay in certain light, they gleam from the shadows,
Not visible to the Zoom attendants.
