The School Shooting
The hallway smells like floor wax and Friday morning donuts,
Backpacks swinging, sneakers squeaking, nothing about this says what comes.
Somewhere between second period and the fire drill nobody called,
The world inside these walls gets small, gets loud, gets mauled.
Hands that held the children tight against the classroom floor,
Whispering “be quiet, be still” while something pounded at the door.
The intercom goes dead. The clock keeps ticking like it doesn’t know.
And twenty pairs of eyes learn what no child should ever come to know.
The news crews come and go, the vigils light and fade,
The politicians offer thoughts and prayers, already pre-displayed.
Nothing changes but the count, the names, the flowers at the gate,
And the parents who will never hear “I’m home” from the ones who came too late.