A poem written about my advisory (advisory is sort of like homeroom, you're supposed to have the same one all four years of high school) teacher, wondering, speculating, about his changing attitude and behavior towards us.

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Comb-over

faraway eyes

and inch-thick glasses

rough fingers all covered

with oil and sharp shavings of steel

deep in the thick fog of age

youth's buoyancy, brightness

jarring his senses

buzz of conversation

too loud in his ears

he smiles and scowls

at the words that he hears

some moments he loves them

some moments he hates

he knows he's so close to

bright Heaven's famed gates

he envies their youth with the lukewarm glare

of a soul much to old to know its own despair

his attitude should be hot

angry and bold

he only manages flashes of tepid

mixed with a calm much to fragile to wear

all the time around youth

been too long in this place

too long in this school

he was as young as we when he came

he never left

always working the coat-room

at formal school dances

a cold cloud of age

intruding upon their magical moments

their firsts

their mosts

he has no business with it

he should have moved on

the rest of us do

But how many proms has he watched from the back?

How many times has he borne the loud music

the vulgarity of their dancing

their rude, inconsiderate ways

all for a chance to relive it again?

How many first kisses has he witnessed and wished

he could be that young

that free

that alive?

Too many for us to count.

But still he is lost

in the blue-gray haze

of fumbling

slow

irreversible

age.