Cathleen Calbert

Wake with a jolt into guilt.
White-rabbit run across campus.

Wrong building.
No one knows anything.

Thumb the bulletin.
Class at ten. It’s eleven.

If and when
You burst in,

A circle of kids listens
To the cheerful clink

Of each silver word
Falling from your lips.

Something’s wrong.
Walls drop away, doors open.

You’re lost in the quad.
You can’t make them stay.

Slap of books,
Zip of backpacks.

They’re merging
Into a student body.

Hey, you’re still speaking!
But who are you teaching?

They smile at each another.
They are going to Burger King.

They are going to have sex.
Your silver words are drops of sweat.

first published in The Wisconsin Review