They are going,
one-by-one, to
the place where

old teachers go,
to some classroom
in their minds,

call it 603 or
maybe 211,
reaching for a

pile of papers to
grade and waiting
for September

to arrive, with
all that it might
bring, the new

faces they'll
no longer see,
and memories

surging like a
tide, those years
when time flew

off the clock,
moments no
white board

can record,
when mind
touched mind

as if Prometheus
had set a room
ablaze, then

the teacher
turns off the
lights, closes

the door, and
latches the

gate for
the very
last time.

January 2006

All written material © Bill Schechter, 2016
Contact Bill Schechter