Art Department Commons

by Rohan Dhurandhar

the art building's a long tunnel
next to a sculpture garden,
where there are only rusty sculptures.

maybe the sculptors are rusty
because they are students.
or it is kitsch,
or camp or modern—
all of which escapes me
because I am a layperson.

I peeked in once,
where they're welding
furiously,
on scholarships
or cigarettes
and distant dreams.

the doors are left open,
summer or winter,
but no one cares.

they're always welding and clanging.

once in a while,
on Tuesday mornings,
all the sculptures disappear
and reemerge on Wednesday,
twisted anew,

on dead white concrete pedestals
scattered across the grass,

polished and ready to rust.