Crossings: A Poem

So already, on a mid-September morning, I was waiting for the walk light when I noticed the young man diagonally across the intersection from me. The result was this poem, entitled "Crossings."

 

I could feel him pressing forward, 

Itching to step off the curb,

Muscles tensed, shoulders hunched, 

The only other person standing at the intersection 

Already plugged with rush hour traffic. 

He must have gotten off the train, I thought. 

He must be heading to work, I thought.

 

6:45 on a Wednesday morning. 

North Quincy High*, I thought. 

Its four-story façade directly across from us both 

Loomed implacable over its nearly empty parking lot 

And a meager planting of drought-stressed trees and shrubs: 

School didn’t start for an hour. 

 

He had that new young male teacher look:

Curly black hair and black beard, barely trimmed; 

Blue-green plaid shirt, sleeves rolled up;  

Khaki pants, neither wrinkled nor pressed; 

And black shoes of cloth and leather both—for standing all day. 

One of his hands rested on a briefcase so stuffed and heavy 

That its strap was carving a gorge into his shoulder;  

His other hand cradled a covered cup of coffee against his chest.

 

At the walk light’s first flash, he turned gazelle,

Leaping across the street’s five lanes, 

Then springing through an iron gateway and down several steps 

To the parking lot, which he crossed in lightning strides, 

Coffee still held safe, sealed, and close, 

Before flinging open the silent building’s front door 

And vanishing into its dark maw. 

 

I was right. Young teacher. 

 

And walking on toward the river, 

I thought of the new teachers I’d shepherded   

Through their first weeks of school, 

Recalled how before the day’s first bell, 

They’d sign in, sign on, sign up, set up, 

Gather, photocopy, post, arrange,  

Bright-eyed and breathless,  

Low on sleep but high on drive, 

Intent on turning midnight’s inspiration 

Into their best class so far.

 

“You’ll breathe again in October,” I’d say. 

 

Then I recalled my own first teaching days, 

How energy and hope had kept me afloat  

When imagination outstripped knowledge and skill. 

Starting out was hard enough  

Without pandemic losses to reverse, 

Lockdown drills to supervise, 

Helicopter parents to manage, 

Cellphone use to discourage except when . . .  

When the river came into 

     view,  

The train I’d taken to 

     school for years was 

     halfway across it. 

Nostalgia and relief 

     washed over me 

     in alternating waves 

Until relief won out: 

     in an hour, I’d be home 

Drinking coffee and 

     reading the 

     newspaper. 

 

Wednesday. Hump day. And fall not even yet here. 

I’d never learned to run fast with coffee. 

But I’d learned to teach, and loved it for years. 

I hoped the young man would, too.

 

* Photograph from North Quincy High School Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/photo/?fbid=440015274801551&set=a.440015238134888