Day 539

Walk down to the place
where your school used to be.
Nothing now but crushed stones,
blasted walls, now and again
the shard of a chair, a desk.
Ghost school.  Phantom school.
Sit on a pile of rubble,
imagine yourself
in a classroom.  Someone
beside you — your friend,
the one you’ve known forever —
furiously writing notes, determined
to remember the whole lecture, as
though her life depended on it.
Maybe it did; though you can’t
ask her now.  Can’t ask her
ever again.  Her long fingers
holding a pen, toes curled
inside her shoes.  You can hear
the tick-tick of the words
she’s writing.  Words you will
never see.  Though now,
if you close your eyes 
so the ruins of your city
don’t stretch before you,
you can see the professor
lecturing, one hand in and out
of the pocket of his jacket, the other
circling the air, making
his point.  All the students
alive and watching
with rapt attention.