Parked in symmetry, silent school busses,
summer yellow rectangles
with buzzing bees bumping windows.
No squeals of delight or songs-
“… the wheels on the bus go ‘round...”
No whoosh of the opening bus door
Nor a driver’s “good morning.”
Empty school hallway in high polish
with not one footprint on the sheen that
leads to the stainless-steel drinking fountain.
No thirsty mouths cupping the bone-dry spigot.
No drips on the floor energizing the custodian.
Blank brown cork board spans the corridor
posting no accolades, bulletins or certificates.
Classroom smells of dusty chalk stubs
But no teacher perfume or ten-year-old dirty hands,
nor the faint, sweet smell of lunchbox apples.
Pencils without points, paste caked in a jar,
Neither sharing their scents of productivity.
Merely a wall and empty bracket for allegiance pledging.
Cubbies store no binders, books or secrets.
Outside playground is a dry, sandy place
with monkey bars lacking young climbing primates.
Slides hosting no one’s little bottom,
And rows of swings hanging in place
With occasional breezes as their riders.
Tether and ball locked away leave
a bare metal pole – a monolith of inactivity.
The only friend in sight is the calendar.
With its white boxes of hope,
offering promise and surety
that summer will finally fade,
and September will bring
the sights and sounds and smells of children
as teachers tend the hope of the world.
Ginevra Blake
