A poem for the start of the academic calendar
Nine O’Clock Class
With hands and eyes submerged in their smart phones
the students sit silently, detached as
mansions in the Hamptons brooding on wealth.
In touch but not touching, intimate
at a distance, they report on waking,
the windy walk from the dorm, last night’s bout
of angst, their new boots, whether God exists.
The mystery of their separateness bars the way;
their silken umbilicals feel unassailable,
so the only sound is chalk on slate.
Can I summon them back to each other,
this room, the text from Aristotle, myself?
Beyond the window the pierced blue heavens
stream with the unheard chatter of angels.
“Nine O’Clock Class” first appeared in Harbinger Asylum
© 2019 Robert Wexelblatt
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