The Dust Bowl Lesson

Thin brown frames perched on his nose,  

a soft tilt and weary resignation implied.  

He’d polish lenses against the handkerchief,  

threadbare, a relic soft as the past.  

Then, as if orchestrating his own ritual,  

a trumpet of a nose blow, quick and sure,  

followed by a swipe across the mustache,  

mouth, as if erasing some invisible sin.  

The handkerchief tucked neatly, pocketed,  

finding its resting place, ready again.  

He’d turn as though stepping into another era,  

his shoes shuffling dust into the still air.  

“Anyone?” he’d ask in that flat timbre,  

as if the question would crack the room.  

We stared at desks, wood dark as secrets,  

safe corridors of feigned indifference.  

A prize, he teased, for the brave among us—  

answers carried like notes by pigeons,  

a classroom built of drought and silence,  

his voice the lone echo between rows.