The Enlightened One
He sits in the back of the classroom,
waiting.
Waiting for a turn to speak
Without seeming to preach
Waiting for a time to say
Without giving it all away.
Waiting for a time to go.
Without working a show.
Waiting for a time to try
Without yelling goodbye
Waiting, waiting, waiting.
Then up shoots the hand, the Enlightened One's
fingers stretching politely to the sky, or, at
least locally, to a water sprinkler in the ceiling.
The name called, the voice too soft, too proud
but still his own.
He speaks,
And having spoken leaves all around him mystified,
Except the teacher, who smiles knowingly.
Hello, myself, He says, Nice to meet you again.
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