Elementary School

Even if I looked like I was paying attention
I would often forget what class I was in.
The carpet was as hard as dirt road and paved
with gold squares, each containing a circle
that would fit my spread-out hand to the fingertips.

There was a square patch of carpet worn down
to the sinew where the wheeled cart stood,
with it's black rubber mats on both shelves
and its cold metal frame painted a color
precisely centered between green and blue.

On the cart was the breathing swan body
of the the projector, its brightly lit
organs visible though the fan vent,
and its two glass eyes on its bent head,
one looking out and one looking in.

The projector dumped its light out
on the roll-down screen where you could see
the shadow of the pond-ripple glass plate,
the permanent smudges, and the scratches
that stayed when the teacher pulled the transparency.

When the teacher walked past, the screen
would breathe. If the door opened or closed,
it would jump and the words on it would
bend like leather over your elbow and slip
about the screen like a sonnet on the water.

Even if I looked like I was paying attention
I would often forget I was in the music room.
Now the lights come on, the projector's heart
cools to a stop. The teacher says to find
our places. Everyone but me moves.

Each has place they know is theirs, the place
just shown to them on the bright screen
in the dark room with the shining windows.
Each has something to do in their place.
I look at the circles again and wait.