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