Principal’d contemplation.
I stepped into the gray evening,
the fog wrapping the jungle gym in a ghostly pause,
no squeals of tag, no bounce of the kickball—
just the echos of the day, fading.
Hallways hum with fluorescent stillness,
no boiler groaning, no papers rustling,
no lost-and-found gloves left behind.
My keys jangle, louder than expected
in this realm without citizens.
For a moment, the to-do list sits obedient,
not spilling over, not chasing me down the corridor—
and I sit in the quiet,
listening to nothing.
I don’t miss the chaos, not yet.
Not the scuffed floors, not the lunch trays clattering,
not the throng of hands reaching out
for pencils, for passes, for reassurance.
Still, the fog hangs heavy.
The building feels like a story waiting to happen,
its walls holding their breath for
the noise to return—
the sound of them,
alive and running, breaking the stillness
I thought I wanted.
For now, I wait,
this place mine alone,
fogged windows, empty desks,
a clock ticking softly toward January.