Superstition, with Water Fountain

On the first day of classes we line up at the Old Well like pilgrims in running shoes, every one of us above believing this and doing it anyway. One sip for a 4.0. The water tastes like any fountain's water, which is to say like nickels and July. Behind me a boy recites amino acids under his breath like a rosary; a girl holds her iced coffee like a chalice. The line moves. Whole futures pass through one small arc of water—doctors, poets, somebody's beloved third-grade teacher— each bending in turn, as if luck were a thing you could drink. As if it weren't. I take my sip. I'm not saying it works. I'm saying I got in line.