Horace Mann High

Assemblies of vine-like wires and electrical cords hang
from the perforated ceiling,
a jungle fed by abandoned late bells.
The classroom, whose floor is a carpet of broken glass and rubble,
has been reduced to three desks.
One sits upright, beside the window, the wood sun-worn and pale.
The second is on its side beside the green chalkboard,
which reads “NICOLE HAS BIG PUSSY LIPS.”
(A small rectangle of 2:30 winter amber sundown spotlights
the word HAS.)
One of the rusty metal legs is a middle finger
directed upward,
defiantly fuckyouing the comatose clock
that not-ticks between shoulder blades of two, small American flags.
The minute and second hand permanently instruct
1:13,
despite the sliding light
that lectures across the dust.
The third desk rests in pieces in the middle of the room,
a fire extinguisher hatchet beside it,
splinters lockerdoor teeth spouting apologies
for education system failures.
For a moment, I am static in the wreckage.
Silence cups its ghostly fingers ‘round my winter breath;
the kind of silence that can only exist in the space
between actively twiddling thumbs
or in the glints of eager, unblinking eyes on a clock
that still has something to give.