By late afternoon, he is like a nub of chalk
resting in the dusty tray beneath the board,
like a tattered screen curled up
in its cylinder at the top of its chain.

He turns out the lights and watches
the classroom fade into its learned dusk,
then shuffles down the corridor
like a limping conductor taking tickets

he no longer cares to inspect. He is
on his way to the dining car, where
she is already waiting for him,
her elbows denting the tablecloth

as she raises the cut globe of her glass
and gently swirls what remains,
only a single drop of wine
marring the linen of her sleeve.