English Lit

We were Harper Leed and Robert Frosted
to death that spring
Dogwoods and Apple Petals dropped to the empty,
Sad lawn being mowed by the lucky man on a tractor
He was lit by Sunshine and cast Shadows
That spread like a breeze to that classroom
 
The wooden chair spoke of impatience 
Up my backside while the pleading,
Repetitious voice of that tweed suit
with elbow patches tore the minutes into Shreds
which landed on football heros, future lawyers,
and automobile mechaniced stares
The window invited us in, in a way that monotonous
Voice never did.
 
The word gifts he threw at us were lost in tunes
In our heads: Gaye, Mitchell, Jagger, and Lennon
And my sour face never invited discourse 
Left alone in the crowded room,
I chased the mower until it left the grounds
And headed into the blessed woods 
Where the sounds were real and holy.
 
At the reunion, Michael, you asked if I remembered
Mr. Udal’s class and the fun we had.
I wondered about the window
If it had been washed and the clarity was gone
His view and mine
Of see and saw
And knew enough now to say nothing
But smile and nod while 
Classic rock played