Teacher

by James Whyte

 

Your eye is still water, absorbing 

the cloudy agitation of teenagers.

 

Your ear holds their voices, the clang 

of metal lockers echoing 

 

in the dim corridors of your dreams.

You know there is nothing emptier

 

than an empty school – a trickle

of water, a creak, the unexpected

 

whine of wind in forlorn corners.

Rooms full of absence. The deafening

 

tick of a clock measures the slow

hollowing of floorboards and bannisters, 

 

slow growth and attrition 

of vanished hands and feet.

 

Interminable childhood minutes 

stretching to aeons. Your own

 

seasoned voice resounds, sanded,

polished and showing its grain. 

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Cover photo by Barry Zhou on Unsplash