What Goes On Behind Room 43's Door
By R. R. Stokes
The apple sits unripe and green, though clean.
Pale faces look don't dare look up from their chairs.
The room is still and bare.
The chalkboard sits cold and grey and on it tiny letters and hopeless equations are sprayed.
A hard, icy blue eye stares out from beneath a magnifying glass for those whose sight is impaired.
Searching like a frog, waiting to let her tongue fly and make any little noise pay.
A sneeze sounds. SLAP!! goes her ruler accompanied by the ring of the lunch bell.
Safe for now, not so safe later on.
A slow scraping of chairs against the squeaky clean floor.
A quick and silent attempt starts, to get out the door and into the hall, before she can speak at all.
While others frolic and play, those from her class sit silent as mice.
Each thinking of how to get too sick to go to school the next day.