Exit: Stage Left

They're having a party today
To celebrate my going away.
Now who is the more relieved—
Me at the end of more to say
Or them with the end of me?

Surely the administration breathes relief
Glad for an old fart gone;
For the bottom line is the bottom line
And the boat must bubble on.

They'll take my salary now
And with a little stretch and tuck
Make one of the monthly payments on
Their new white garbage truck.

And the library room where I once made do
With a verse and a wing and a prayer
Will house 30 computers all brand spankin' new
To chatter and mow and stare

But I hope somewhere in these hallowed halls
There'll still be two or three
Who will teach for the love of the living word
That makes the captives free

May there still be one whose joy, unashamed
Can set the tables on a roar,
And bring to life those songs and scenes
The word-smiths bleed and labor for.

But there are some hard times comin' on
Kids now can scarcely read
Remediation fills our time

But seldom satisfies the need.

But haply somewhere of a May
Beneath a tree with buds Frost-Gold
A doting lover may re-share
The good wine from "of old"

A sip of Frost, a draught of Keats
A pull of Tennyson or Yeats
A mug of Whitman for the road,
And Shakespeare when we celebrate.

This famine can't continue long—
Some bright, new troubadore will be by
To bring the magic words to song
And diamonds to the eye;

For the stuff we writers deal with
Is that gold that fadeth not.
Bad taste may mar it for a while
But good is not forgot.

For gold's inventor was The Word—
LOVE, That name above all names
He'll make it sure the Good gets heard
Despite false wisdom's claims

Above the flood of noise that drowns
The ear in endless drone and hum
A heavenly rhetoric shines clear
A star whose beacon draws us home.

There, once again the Gold will shine
In words that blaze above;
Passion will pack new classes fine
In a Gold-rush wrought by Love,

G. Pinkney
4/11/02