At a classroom window, I watch
the carnage. An orange excavator
rips foundation stones from earth,

smashes blocks into chunks,
scoops all into a waiting truck.
Last night's rain delayed game

dragged on too long, yet
I lingered by a radio, grading sad
essays on Much Ado. Love,

rapturous, had drenched my poor
charges and, fleeing, they'd left
behind scraps of prose devoid

of grace in lines that cleave
to no stylebook. I've failed them.
A cat flits between cars,

shrubs, and houses as I yawn
and pace their rows. When noise
relents, I sit down to wait

and write with them. Last night,
I stayed up to hear a wet sky
drop the final out into a mitt.