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.