Old teach

They file in, slumping into chairs,
bags sprawling on the floor,
notes ready for the morning ritual
of taking down facts & figures
of the consuming narrative that is life
& the fiction of it.
The room is heavy with solitary conversation –
He hears his voice bounce against the wall
His lecture drowning in a cavern of lectures
in his mind when years ago
he would reinvent the same old truths
for this gaggle of kids who, now & then,
would be startled by the pictures
of their own psyches…
The clock ticks like a bomb
His voice waning into a muteness
that blends with the rustle of trees
outside the windows
where the sun shines like any day in summer –
Scorching, merciless, blinding.
He picks up his books & his composure:
He knows, like all the kids who troop
to their daily, inexorable routine.
That nothing has really happened,
they will live their own lives
remembering only the academic gigs
& saleable truths…
He dodders to his car,
eager for a quick getaway.

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