New School Shoes

On the first day of fall classes
students stumble drenched
and drunk from anxiousness

huddled to their binders and books,
an expensive coffee in their hand,
they mumble and ask for assurance
like they are crawling out of Plato's cave.

I shiver and shift in my new school shoes
wondering if they have been overcome
by the deception that slinks around
in the backrooms of powerful places,
or if they have just forgotten
their manners.

Perhaps it might not be worth the ache
in these shoulders and neck
after carrying the load of intelligent conversation
and my own overfull backpack
for so long. 

A young man sniffles,
startles me,
tucks in his shirt,
and asks the way to the restroom
and the code to the door.

I wait for the moment to pass,
write something down he might remember,
and pray for the wisdom
to wait and see.