SCHOOLDAYS, SCHOOLDAYS

We are like students in a cosmic class room,
looking to be led, wanting to learn our lesson,
each eager, yet afraid to be called to make our
mark on the chalkboard of life.

I remember how it was, how I learned that the
thin edge of the chalk, under pressure would
skip and scratch over the board, making screechy,
shrieking, "I could just kill him!" noises while
leaving only the lightest of marks.

Last period - boys who performed well were
permitted to go outside to dust the erasers.
Good girls brought water and sponged the
slate clean for another day. I was kept in.

Why am I still here in near emptiness?
Tommy Lee and Bobby are long gone, killed
in an almost forgotten war. David died in his
garden on a recent summer day. They found
him there, his basket filled with fresh tomatoes.

I am sorry I cannot complete my lesson. I sit.
I stare at the blank board. Where are the others?
Did they get the right answer? No, that is not
chalk dust in my hair. Teacher, may I have more
time? Could you repeat the assignment?