Armstrong

An old Irish teacher - Mr. Armstrong

lost hopelessly in time,

yet resurrected for one more class

in my restless sleep.

I mapped his face again

through the dusty sunlight

of the classroom window.

Sunken features,

small eyes,

preposterous, extruding chin.

Thin, limp hair,

functional, chalk-dusted brown jacket.

Recounting verbs and vocabulary

to an uncaring mob,

as we openly jeered and mocked him.

Punishing him for our innocence.

Seeing how far we could push

- before watching him snap -

for our daily entertainment.

I suddenly became aware of my dream,

- momentarily straddled the abyss -

remembered hearing of how he'd taken early retirement,

having pushed a boy through a window,

suffered with his nerves,

died too young.

In my dream again I rejoined my classmates

on a dark brick street

heading for his funeral,

to pay our last respects.

Or was it our first?

Then being asked to leave by his grieving widow.

And, shamefully, leaving without question.

Deep down, we knew we were accessories.

Each in our minuscule degree,

breaking a man for our daily chuckles.

Better than learning verbs and vocabulary.

Never learning how to treat another.