The Lecturer

The theatre swarms with colour in stark contrast to the grey-shirted, static lecturer at the front; the place used to be a church. A girl barely looks on, tugs at her dress, and yawns.
She slides past buildings labeled chemistry or botany all named in green, battered copper.
The black ice doesn't get her down as she considers the blue sky of creation that provides no clouds to obstruct passage of the sparkling frost. The red spires of the sandstone museum are elegant in their sunlight blouses today and on the bench where she's sitting the girl admits how much the pattern on the edge of her frock looks like rows of lightbulbs. How she'd love to fill those bell towers with them and make sure her lecturer saw.