Just a man

Mr. Patterson waiting in line,

his wallet open, trying to find

his card. A photo slipped—

a child. His fingers gripped

the edge, held it there

for a moment. I could see

the weight of it, the care,

the private tragedy

of being a man in a polo shirt

carrying someone else's face,

of being reminded, alerted

to his own displaced

importance. He was just

a person waiting for his prescription,

not the teacher we discussed

in class. The distinction

hit me then—that authority

was just a mask, a role,

that behind the majority

of lessons was a soul

tired from carrying more

than students could imagine.

He paid and walked out the door,

and I watched him vanish

into the ordinary street,

and understood that teachers

were just people we'd meet

who were broken teachers

of what it meant to survive

on less than you needed,

to keep something alive

inside while you pleaded

for rest. He was gone,

and I was left with the knowing

that authority had come

undone, and that showing

was crueler than not knowing.