The Classroom

Is it my classroom, or theirs?
It's mine, of course, as they see me
whether I wish it or not,
as the man, the one causing
friction against their free-wheeling
self-possession and assurance
that they have this all figured out--
me, this guy, khakis and tie,
some gray at the temples,
who has designs on their freedoms,
via the theater of grades and discipline,
to keep them docile, when all I want
is for them to see these woods,
feel them, the way our protagonist does,
be there, crunching twigs underfoot,
but they are too much here, this
fluorescent prison, with a phone vibrating
in a pocket—a message from
anywhere but here. I try to show them
the seasons of a man—it won't always be
like this—but they will only see it all
in some red-shifted future,
when everything recedes. Now, feet on desks,
studied indifference, and a hardness in
some like a dare. The bell rings,
the sound of a round declared a draw.
Try again tomorrow.