Bitter Sound

The manager’s voice, a razor’s scrape,

hit the kid today. The boy went pale.

And suddenly I’m back, the shape

of Henderson’s room. A harsh, stale

smell of chalk dust, old gym socks, ink.

He’d stalk the aisles, a hawk, his gaze

a sudden fire. Make you think

you were nothing. Through the hazy days

of childhood, he was that pure, hard thing.

The cheap erasers, thick with dust,

he’d fling them hard. Make your ears ring.

Taught us that truth was built on rust

and sweat. Taught us that breaking down

was how you learned. That bitter sound.