Thoughts on a late afternoon




 Originally published in ink Volume 3 (2020) of the Vancouver Public Library 

One thirty 
The scorching sun roams 
A dusty wind blew by 
The withering leaves In a haze of slumber 
Students on wooden chairs 
Cramped like anchovies in a can 
Eyes drooling over the dusty chalk board 
Waiting for the geography teacher to sum up his lesson 
The words were dry and boring 
Just like the Sahara Desert.

 Front row kids 
Drooping eyes in glasses 
Straining all the attention 
On the illegible chalk scribbles of the teacher
 Middle row kids 
Dismissively looking out of the windows 
Now even a sparrow looking for worms 
Seems intriguing 
Back row kids 
Heads on the thick textbooks for pillows
 Longing for a quick nap.

One thirty three 
My fingers tracing on the marks of the desk
Scars of the distant past
 Maybe this carved sword sign was from the grade eight kid 
Who has frizzly hair and always has Coke spilling on his shirt 
Or the two kids hastily marking their names in a heart 
By the head of a blunt compass 
Must have quarreled over their boba glasses
 Someone wrote the name of a rock band 
Now has been dispersed.

One forty 
I finally pick up the textbook 
Intending to write something 
But am disrupted by the deafening sound 
Of a construction crane outside 
The pungent smell of melted gravel and concrete 
Fills the humid air 
The monotonous voice of the teacher still goes on
 Migration, dispersion, or social hierarchy
 While the world is still turning
 In all its frenzy and commotion 
The clock is still ticking 
In an afternoon geography class.


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