Professor,
I hope you are well.
Have they papers in heaven or TV in hell?
I hope you can see me.
I hope you’re proud.

I remember your face, carved in stone:
The mouth of a principal.
(You weren’t a handsome man.)
You spoke like the ocean
And I felt you sitting on the couch
And ate your words.

Once you were younger-
Your face a blank slab of marble
Your mouth as straight as your words.
Born with a sad secret in your eyes,
Wounds without cries.

Once you were young-
Full of trees and cars and
Streets and stars and stories
And the lights were your Xanadu, limited immortality.
A head from the forest, a face from the city.
You might have lived forever.

And you were young-
A thin white boy in a prison of expanse
And denim pants and rock posters on your wall.
Your smile nearly hid your sad secret.
You were made for more-
You were born to be the Professor-
And you were suffocating in teen life and its
Frivolous affairs.

I look at you behind your drums
And wonder:
Would you have been my friend?