When I Was A Young Teacher.

Up a few flights of stairs in the old high school,

on the way to my classroom, I listen to rain drum the sky light.

Years ago, when I was a young teacher, 

Barnes took us through the bell tower onto the roof.

I looked out over treetops and Black River,

in the city where I teach History, and

felt like I was accomplishing something,

beyond overcoming a mild sense of vertigo. 

Trees held onto their early green

while neighborhood kids ran through vacant lots 

playing tag. I watched from the edge 

knowing they'd be my students.

Today as the rain drums the sky light, 

my memory is drawn to that time 

when I was a young public school teacher,

and it was still something to be.

Fight or Flight.

I watched the sun burn down

afternoon into the Cuyahoga valley

and thought about Jack's

forlorn rags of growing old.

If we're fortunate we'll see those days

that tear through years with

increasing speed, like route 80

through a forest in spring,

and feel brand new, ready

for a fistfight, a fit of laughter,

the next great work of art, or maybe

just a chance to mow the lawn.