They come to me at the sweaty, red-hot tail end of summer
with curious, sunburned faces
and back-to-school haircuts just a little too short.
They come to me sporting backpacks in clean, bright rainbow hues (no Sharpie graffiti yet),
glossy shoes that squeak down linoleum-tiled hallways,
and uniforms with the newness still creased into them.
They come to me with new packs of lined paper
--the crinkle of clear plastic wrapping, the scent of fresh stationery--
with mechanical pencils, five to a package,
and 3-ring notebooks, see-through covers waiting to be cluttered
with photos and ticket stubs and illicit notes passed quietly during boring lectures.
They come to me with forms--
forms for the nurse
forms for the office
forms for the cafeteria
forms for the bus.
(School is all about forms.)
They come to me with test scores, with GPAs, with transcripts, with all sorts of records--official and not.
They come to me with expectations, with goals, with preconceptions, with dreams.
They come to me with questions--
"When is lunch?"
"Can we listen to music in here?"
"Do we have assigned seats?"
"How do I try out for football?"
"Is high school as hard as they say it is?"
They come to me with ideas--lots of ideas.
Ideas to start a club
Or rebuild their community
Or spark a revolution.
Ideas to change the world.
They come to me and I watch.
They come to me and I listen.
They come to me and I marvel.
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