Music Teacher: Newtown

Do you deeply go away when you stare at the white? Is it easier to be blind now than to shake all the hands? Frantic crowd behind us teeming black ants.

Your hand I press, our warm palms touch for seconds . . . your fingers played once when we sang in front of you not this, a different crowd, the clean white box

a still heart sealed in the center like ice. It is raining outside you wipe mist from my dark jacket as the others keep coming

to you and you tell me it has been so long since we played.

by mark damon puckett