New School

One by one, or pairs
In the days before classes begin
They crane their necks
To steal glances
Through my doorway.
I am an enigma.

They are curious,
Eager to resume routine
Despite the joys of lazy summer.
They navigate familiar halls
Cluttered by the upheaval of preparation.
I am a tornado.

This room is familiar to them
But different now
And mine is an unfamiliar face.
They giggle nervously,
Finding more questions than reassurance.
I am practically Socrates.

I hope my smile is warm,
My small talk welcoming,
Ask their names as though
I have any hope of remembering,
Tell them I will see them again soon.
I am a snake-oil salesman.

Their faces betray the uncertainty
I train my own to conceal.
While they search for clues,
Struggling to size me up,
I am doing the same.
I am an illusionist.

I steel myself for Monday.
When every timid face returns,
Hoping I will read minds and quell fears.
It is in those first days
That expectations are set.
I am a drill sergeant.

I can not tell them that I have none
That I am unprepared
And have forgotten their names already.
That I worry, like they do,
That things could all go very wrong.
I am a pessimist.

Instead, I play the role
Flicking a red pen at my wooden desk
As though there was already correcting to be done.
One last confident wave gives them leave to skitter off
Their fading footsteps echoing awkwardly off empty lockers.
I am a con man.

Breath by breath,
In the moments of silence that follow
I remind myself,
Stealing another glance at the calendar,
That there will always be more of me
Than there are of them.

Taking the Night Shift

We waltz slowly in the dark.
Head on my shoulders, your
Soft breaths gently whisper secrets.
I listen,
Finding meaning in their meter.
My hips ebb and flow
With your melodic exhales,
The two finding syncopation.
It is effortless,
Neither of us knowing which first set the tempo,
Or if you do, you don't say.

We could whirl this way for hours
Alone with silent thoughts
Eyelids lulled by the window fans,
The white noise stilling the humid air.

Tiny fingers curled at my shirt sleeve,
You sniff sharply at my neck,
Stirring, only for a moment,
Then settle in once more.
I murmur sweet nothings
In hushed tones.
Tomorrow, neither of us will remember the words.
Like dance steps, they blur together
The moment they are uttered.

Cracking open one bleary eye,
The clock confirms
Tomorrow arrived long ago,
During the first of our countless promenades,
never announcing its coming.
The sun will do that soon enough.

Thoughts drifting into dream's courtyard,
And with no toes on which to tread,
My shuffling footsteps fade,
Hips slow to a halt,
Cocked comfortably to one side.
Certain you have long since stopped noticing such things.
Again, you prove me wrong,
Registering your discontent with a sigh.
The swaying resumes,
But as always
You are too precious for a junior high 2-step,
Wriggling your protest into my palm.

I wince,
Check the clock again,
And reach out one arm gingerly
To run the warm water,
Cradling your back deftly with the other.
The bottle will not be warm soon enough.

Shushing into your tiny ear,
I worry you will wake your mother.
Shaking off the weight of slumber,
I regain posture,
Raising poised arms,
Hoping that this time, Baby Girl,
You'll let me lead.
One, two, three
One, two, three...