Tonight's Poet Corner: The Immortal Headmaster

The Immortal Headmaster
by Belinda Roddie

At the old schoolhouse, children gather
in scuttling clumps on the tile floor,
scooping up clay and pinching it between
their fingers, rolling it up into miniature
planets to be launched into space, orbiting
their own private sun.

One of the teachers coughs and scratches
at his large, reddened nose. Traces of white
still linger on the rusty rims of his nostrils.
My blazer pockets are filled with painkillers,
since the bottle that had once cradled them
cracked and set them free. They are cold

against my knuckles. I could eat
those blue gelatin capsules like candy
if I wanted to - my head hurts enough
for it. I suppose a schoolmaster's thoughts
are supposed to squeal against the membrane
of a feeble brain, to remind me that I'm
still alive and in charge.

We love our old schoolhouse: Its splintered
doors, its greasy windows, its Gothic panes
leading into Poe-esque corridors where
imaginary monsters dissipate at the sight
of a chalkboard. Call us old-fashioned, but

we prefer the ticking of grandfather clocks
as we teach, the giggling of the students
accompanied by the scratch of white against
black, the creaking of chairs and desks
signifying the yearning for knowledge and
the rational fear of growing old.