You volunteer to teach summer school.
Attendance is low.

Near the end of lunch, you walk to the restroom–down a hallway
lined with furniture waiting for floor wax to dry in empty classrooms.

You smell freshly cut grass and feel humidity
before you even see the open door at the end of the hall.

It’s been 2 weeks and 2 days since Uvalde.

You don’t take your eyes from the door.

You can’t hear the kids in the cafeteria,
only the drone of a lawn mower.

The bottom edge of the door has caught the mat meant for wet feet,
meant to prevent kids from getting hurt.

You tug the door free and close it.

You know the security camera is watching
and think about the footage playing on the screens in the office.

Walking back, you see the doors near the cafeteria are open, too,
by maintenance men who are installing a new security system.

The cafeteria is a cacophony of conversation and laughter.
You compose your face as you enter

but think of green high tops.