The loud tone over the PA beckoned our attention –
punctuating the air, signaling an announcement:
A drill? A test? A reminder of a thing forgotten?
Must we go outside and pretend the school’s on fire?
The voice from above announced your passing,
and my heart groaned while the words
echoed through the silent, empty hallways.
The students shifted nervously in their seats –
and refrained from chewing their gum.
Later, I sat in the cafeteria
as a class filed outside to sketch an autumn day.
It was nice to see the woods ablaze –
crimsons and umbers and deep rusts
sprinkled together in a symphony of crayola chaos.
What a model to sit for these students,
who know nothing of a proper canvas –
only their iPod screens and Gameboys.
Even through the mess hall aroma of meatloaf and green beans
I could smell those leaves – the musty scent of dried apricot
with plum and a hint of overripe persimmon,
like those I used to throw as a boy
at my friends who lived across the street.
At the funeral home with the widow
a crystal chandelier hangs oblivious from its ornamental medallion
like my hands at my sides, not knowing where to go.
The adults shift nervously on their feet
and refrain to look but straight ahead.
In the corner under a crucifix
they have placed you, Bob Murphy.
You rest amid the flowers –
giant masses of asters, chrysanthemums, gerberas –
and there is a red velvet kneeler for the prayerful.
The box where you lie is simple –
solid, rich brown oak with a tight grain,
straight lines and no adornments.
Off to the side they’ve placed the pictures of you:
as a little boy grinning shyly,
in a football uniform, ruddy-faced at summer camp,
with your brothers, smiling on vacation, holding a new baby,
balancing two red-headed children on your knees,
and then in artful black and white
you stare into the eyes of your beloved the day you wed.
This parlor is so pretty,
with its gilded mirrors and brass sconces;
the shining highboy once held table linens, perhaps,
and an immaculate sideboard stands
with no food upon it.
All I can smell are the lilies,
the damask upholstered couches,
a wisp of lemon oil,
and the woman in blue with too much perfume.
Your widow leaves the room to take some air,
and the room sighs, relieved at her exit.
Your brothers, with their freckles
and sharp Irish chins, work the room
shaking hands and saying hello and thank you
to people they do not know.
The eldest is rumpled—
the first shirt he found and threw in a duffel
as he raced to catch a red-eye.
Kind, polite, and nodding,
they look and sound too much like you
and it hurts to speak with them.
In a well-lit curio cabinet rests a collection of bells –
little dainty brass tinklers,
a miniature china bell with a winter scene,
some crystal fluted bells with etched lines,
one blue jasperware with a cameo,
a dented copper cow bell,
small brass school bells with wooden handles,
a porcelain tea bell,
and a reproduction Liberty Bell.
To call from a sickbed? To meditate? To warn? To alert?
I pause behind a winged-back chair
as your students huddle around you,
looking and wondering and whispering.
I watch them watching you, inspecting you.
And they just stare:
a sad curiosity, a curious sadness.
The slight girl sobs, and a boy snickers witlessly.
punctuating the air, signaling an announcement:
A drill? A test? A reminder of a thing forgotten?
Must we go outside and pretend the school’s on fire?
The voice from above announced your passing,
and my heart groaned while the words
echoed through the silent, empty hallways.
The students shifted nervously in their seats –
and refrained from chewing their gum.
Later, I sat in the cafeteria
as a class filed outside to sketch an autumn day.
It was nice to see the woods ablaze –
crimsons and umbers and deep rusts
sprinkled together in a symphony of crayola chaos.
What a model to sit for these students,
who know nothing of a proper canvas –
only their iPod screens and Gameboys.
Even through the mess hall aroma of meatloaf and green beans
I could smell those leaves – the musty scent of dried apricot
with plum and a hint of overripe persimmon,
like those I used to throw as a boy
at my friends who lived across the street.
At the funeral home with the widow
a crystal chandelier hangs oblivious from its ornamental medallion
like my hands at my sides, not knowing where to go.
The adults shift nervously on their feet
and refrain to look but straight ahead.
In the corner under a crucifix
they have placed you, Bob Murphy.
You rest amid the flowers –
giant masses of asters, chrysanthemums, gerberas –
and there is a red velvet kneeler for the prayerful.
The box where you lie is simple –
solid, rich brown oak with a tight grain,
straight lines and no adornments.
Off to the side they’ve placed the pictures of you:
as a little boy grinning shyly,
in a football uniform, ruddy-faced at summer camp,
with your brothers, smiling on vacation, holding a new baby,
balancing two red-headed children on your knees,
and then in artful black and white
you stare into the eyes of your beloved the day you wed.
This parlor is so pretty,
with its gilded mirrors and brass sconces;
the shining highboy once held table linens, perhaps,
and an immaculate sideboard stands
with no food upon it.
All I can smell are the lilies,
the damask upholstered couches,
a wisp of lemon oil,
and the woman in blue with too much perfume.
Your widow leaves the room to take some air,
and the room sighs, relieved at her exit.
Your brothers, with their freckles
and sharp Irish chins, work the room
shaking hands and saying hello and thank you
to people they do not know.
The eldest is rumpled—
the first shirt he found and threw in a duffel
as he raced to catch a red-eye.
Kind, polite, and nodding,
they look and sound too much like you
and it hurts to speak with them.
In a well-lit curio cabinet rests a collection of bells –
little dainty brass tinklers,
a miniature china bell with a winter scene,
some crystal fluted bells with etched lines,
one blue jasperware with a cameo,
a dented copper cow bell,
small brass school bells with wooden handles,
a porcelain tea bell,
and a reproduction Liberty Bell.
To call from a sickbed? To meditate? To warn? To alert?
I pause behind a winged-back chair
as your students huddle around you,
looking and wondering and whispering.
I watch them watching you, inspecting you.
And they just stare:
a sad curiosity, a curious sadness.
The slight girl sobs, and a boy snickers witlessly.
And me, I slide out the side door
under cover of their confusion.
The night air is chilly and dry;
a quick breeze clips my cheeks as I turn the corner
and head for my car in the parking lot.
The whirr of a streetlamp illuminates a swirl of leaves
trapped between a pickup and a minivan.
under cover of their confusion.
The night air is chilly and dry;
a quick breeze clips my cheeks as I turn the corner
and head for my car in the parking lot.
The whirr of a streetlamp illuminates a swirl of leaves
trapped between a pickup and a minivan.
-- Dacula, 2006
