TOO BLUE SEPTEMBER SKY

Before the Next Day

J.B. Rowell

The decision was made to carry on with the day like nothing
happened—let the parents tell their children in their own way.

When the second tower fell live
each hair on my arms rose up.
The classroom empty except
two teachers sitting side by side
in small, hard chairs
made for third grade bodies
now at gym class:
shoes squeaking
on glossy, wood floor.
Their reality the textured, red ball
hitting too hard,
while other children were losing
moms and dads.

The fluorescent lights off,
and the light
of the telecasted catastrophe
flickered off
the other teacher’s eyes
as we looked at each other:
What do we tell them?
How do we explain?
Why does math matter now?

Walking along the sidewalk
toward the gym,
an airplane flew low
in the too blue September sky.
An idea once ludicrous,
now possible,
brought fear here
as our students ran toward us
scrambling to be first in line
breathless.

I want to keep them from the news,
keep them from becoming
who they will be tomorrow.
Don’t ever want to see them draw
what I just saw.

Don’t go home don’t
go home tonight.