Did the morning joggers hear
the feeble crack, wet snap of fingers
your spine surging one final
headlit rush–a street clearing of traffic?
Was there dust on the ceiling fan? How small
your bags, unpacked, must have seemed.
Did you hope dad would double back?
Was there sunlight dancing on the Charles?
We used to sit in my dining room–
the SAT our pretense to philosophize.
In my classroom, too–first chair
by the window, nearest the air.
You were one of those moneyed kids who dressed like a bum:
Hanes tee messy hair, shaveless, membranes a bit purple, as if squeezing secrets.
I decipher your handwriting in my mind:
words swatted like flies across the page.
You always cut to the chase, know what things meant.
You favored corners.
Tomorrow, peach blossom wreaths will crowd
the room, your body a slim plastic doll in a suit.
Your mother will say Michael loves your class. He always
talks about your brilliant son–is he 6 now?
I’ll say, Mike was a beautiful kid.
Well, she’ll say, he knows. He knows.
I keep staring at the desk where you sat,
below the window, the one with the red and white sticker
that reads “Emergency Escape,” wondering if you knew, then,
not even love could save you.
I read this three times. Each time, more meaning seeped through. Poignant and beautiful.
Powerful. Stunning images. A breath-taking piece
wonderful, insightful poem. welcome to vox poetica!
Good poem
Sad and thoughtful
Thank you!