The clock ticked, as
the hour closed, hands, ticking;
she spoke in front of the class, her students
listening, tentatively attentive, but
each was fidgeting, and the boy in the corner,
watched, he watched the clock as it
ticked and he twitched, his leg bouncing up and down and
there was just a minute left and every student had a tick, squirming,
Passively, twiddling, they did not think,
nor did the teacher, ticking, twitching,
scratching the inside of her hand as she
taught, rushing to finish before the clock struck one.
Only one had no tick.
The kid who never spoke pulled at his lip,
and the star of the court laid on his desk and so did the
jester—the teacher spoke of a jester who danced and played,
always playing and jumping, good god, why did he jump;
only one student knew:
the one who sat still.
And I sat beside the motionless, rubbing my eye and
scratching my back—it all itched—
but he alone ignored the clock’s
tick, so loud, pounding on the minds of every
person in the room, they all watched the
clock, how could he ignore it,
I wondered—you wonder so much
when minutes last hours, mind races, thinking
about everything, and anything but mainly just how
sitting beside me was a silent, still
perfection.
And when the clock struck one, all
stood but he who sat beside me, sitting still, smiling,
clearly not boy, but man, no youth in eyes
that were never lost, never worried, never wandering, never
wondering when the end would come.
Comments