'Tis thesis time,
And all heads turn to Olympus.
There, in a girder and steel contraption
Is where the mighty gods sit.

Like a volcano,
Erupting but once a year,
The gods lay dormant.

But like the ancient Greeks,
The natives know
That the gods will not sleep forever.
Once a year
Around this time,
The locals commence their pilgrimage.

They offer many sacrifices:
Lambs, sheep, stale donuts, poorly designed chips.

The gods will have none of it.
"Bring us some nubile virginal theses!"
They shout.
And their shouts reverberate.

Through the harshly glistening floors
of building 38.
Through the soft eggplant carpets
of Technology Square.

And the students shiver and cower.

"Who will listen to our plight?
Who will save us from cruel fate?"

Only the benevolent mistress,
The one they call "Marilyn Pierce,"
Hears their cries.

Some come by email, some by phone.
Some brave souls enter the office on their own.
But all are healed, all are granted,
Their cruel deadline is extended.

O, merciful goddess of extensions,
Soothe my tortured soul.
Won't you give me a few extra weeks,
I might still be writing when Bill Clinton speaks.

   G   I   R   L      S   C   O   U   T      B   E   N   E   F   I   T

7th floor playroom April 24, 1998 5:30 pm