The Sound of Waiting

The teacher’s voice, a gray hum,

my thoughts had gone astray.

Then from the desk, the grinding come,

to break the silent day.

That metal mouth that chewed the wood,

a smell of cedar dust.

It worked precisely as it should,

a kind of quiet rust.

That whirring, rasping, awful sound,

that made the quiet bloom.

The lead would snap, a hollow pound,

and break within the room.