The Men In The Halls
(To The Young Teachers)

The Men in the Halls
Who walk thru'
The every-hour throngs of
Dull-eyed vacants
The Men in the Halls
Who wear
Clay on their hands,
That has yet to have formed
Into anything but Potential.
The Men in the Halls who have
Come to terms with emptiness...
And look past it into Optimism,
And the Clay does not
Dry.
The Men in the Halls
Do not raise flags on Tropic
Islands--they tend bars in the summer,
They learn to mix drinks and
Already know what it
Is to listen--
Hands full of clay,
They fight no fires, they watch,
And those who grab bit by bit
From the Clay
Do.
The Men in the Halls
Whistle and smile Brightly,
Thinking about tending bars and walking...
Shake their clay-filled hands
And wait for that
One
Or few...who
Rise above the throng with Eyes
That understand--and allowable to...
Shape. And be shaped.
Their clay then takes some sort
Of Form.
The Men in the Halls
Unlock Rooms where the
Air breathes just a bit
Stronger, where a small
Section of Hopeful-Something
They believe,
The Young Men
And mold their shapeless Clay
And laugh
And Tend Bars in the summer.