She stood at the front of the class,
her face carefully composed
with a mask of joy.
Her eyes scan the class for any
shred of regret, for anything
she cold hold on to
and keep for herself.
A teacher, but only
holding the place for
another.

Farewell:
To the books she recommended,
to her sometimes unfair standards,
to the lack of dramatic British accents,
to the clatter of her heels agains the linoleum floor,
to her love of Eliot.

Her (another woman, anyways)
face is obscured in my memory,
but she promised to return.
The arrival of Monday weighs heavy
on my heart.
We have all changed too much.