One Bwog Staffer’s poem about the tragedy of the limited dining hall hours and options during Thanksgiving break.

Alone was I for Thanksgiving break,

stuck on the ghost town of this campus, 

no flight to catch or bus ride to sleep through.

I watched my friends and family—even strangers—

celebrating, eating, laughing, and 

telling stories to each other.

But this I could begrudgingly tolerate:

I had books to read, homework to do, video games to play, and sleep to catch up on. 

One thing resided in my mind, though,

like an insect buzzing around, unrelenting in its torment,

or someone walking too close behind, one

who trails closely but does not pass or adjust—

oh, the discomfort, the pain!

What tortured me so was the lack of dining options during the break.

While the campus may have been dead, I was not;

the necessity of nutrition did not disappear! 

Each day, there was only one dining location open, 

no choices were even present to be made,

my meal swipes subject to an unknown commander—

one who created the trauma of eating at JJ’s before their closing time of 6 pm.

On Thanksgiving, with no options, 

while others had traditional or extravagant Thanksgiving meals,

my stomach growled; my feast:

express snacks from JJ’s—

a banana nut muffin, smokehouse BBQ chips, tropical trail mix— 

a bag of teriyaki beef jerky,

and tears. 

Turkey leg via Wikimedia Commons.