The staccato sound of an
energetic polished shoe tapping
at speed against the floor, willing a second’s length
to match it, or more, so that the
remainder of the period may speed along.
A metallic sploosh inside tin bottle as
a pair of lips sips a drip
of its contents, accompanied by a
desperate desire to break the time left
into manageable pieces punctuated
and washed down by each drink.
The scrape of stump of chair-leg
against bumpy marbled floor to
make the weaker of the two
wear down a little more and scream against each other
in the process.
A subtle brush of fingertip
against thin recycled-paper pages
and as they’re flipped the quivering wobble in the sheet
so akin to the quaver in the voice
of each student expected to speak.
Eyes closed, it’s almost music.
The mechanical locker click.
The heavy sigh that is subscribed to anyone with so full a backpack.
The overlapping voices in the hall.
The keyboard’s dainty clack against fingernails.
A learning institution on the surface
perhaps, but most of all,
school is a curious sort of symphony.