The Product of Boredom

These windows are odd;
Thin strips of glass
With dull grey frames
Letting in little light
But a lot of cold.

There are so many cars
Outside in the car park;
Some are old
And some are tres moderne.
Some are second hand,
And some are brand new.
They all have frost on them.

Some cars are parked awkwardly
And some are parked too perfectly.

The tree in front is
Most fascinating.
It is bare, naked;
Is it dead or just a nudist?
The leaves are gone,
Decomposing on the ground,
Waiting to be replaced.

This place is so quiet,
Mostly because it's a library.
The computer screen
Stares back blankly,
A mirror of my own blank stare.
People walk past
Talking away to each other
While my music blares in my ears.

I know what I should be doing
But I don't want to do it,
So I procrastinated;
I've run out of things to
Procrastinate with.
Coursework is calling
But I don't acknowledge it.

I'm bored.
Can you tell?