Focus

On the board, it has the date: September 3, 2017, written in neat print;

it's the first day of school.

The students file into the classroom with distracted looks,

legs walking, minds left behind,

left behind to real life that is not this classroom.

No one looks particularly thrilled to be here.

This boy, about 17 in age, worries about protecting his mother from his father's blows;

meanwhile, the boy behind him needs to go meet the dealer before 5th period,

or else his family won't eat tonight. Following him is a girl,

and if you she would lift her shirt, just a little, one would be able to see the scars left behind

from the C-section she had last summer; the others told me of their stories.

30 students enter the classroom by the time the bell rings,

each bringing a different tragedy as good as the next.

I don't fit in here, not my clothes or my story;

I have not suffered enough to relate to these people.

Welcome! Let me introduce myself, I am Miss...

Except no one is listening, only looking down at phones, out the window, or just in the air.

My hand glides to the pile of books on my desk, and I briskly brush them off.

Heads fly up and focus on me as the books find the floor with a loud thud.

Step 1 is to get you all to leave what troubles you at the door.

They blink and look back and forth confused,

so I sit down and fold my hands together on top of my desk, 

How are we going to do this?