I stare at John’s binder, not quite believing he discarded it so carelessly. He’s been carrying it around for over two years. In front of where he was sitting is a single piece of paper, almost blank with a few lines scribbled on it. Wondering if it’s a suicide note or a resignation letter, I sneak a quick peek at what appears to be a poem. A haiku? Here I sit, hands tied Room angry, I could save them If only they knew
