It was waiting to pour on 94th Street
I was sweating from 5 classes. My words
wrung out of me, Id tried everything
Id try again on Monday, but this was better
than loading trucks. It was the same sweat,
but kids lived here and I was being paid to be
the grown up. I sat at my desk, Rm. 318
empty but still crowded, chairs warm,
faces gone to subways and the difficult streets.
I was waiting between is and was, moment and memory,
word and echo, full and finished
for the week. Slowly the pale room fell silent.
Outside the hall was sticky with spilled soda.
Thunder coming and rain streaking the glass behind them,
two kids stood at a far window kissing,
stood as on a screened front porch
not looking out, their privacy complete.
School house in the rain,
place of chances, second chances, sweat.