drafting in the wind

I sit in my classroom
It is Friday, 2:26 and I can hear the constant
rumble of the airconditioning.
Doors open
Children converse waiting for the bus
It is like a constant exhalation.
I wait for the room to take a breath.
For some reason sitting here is peaceful.
The light sensor does not detect my presence
Am I still here then?
This poem is pretty stupid
And trite.
What does that say about me?
Stupid, trite? Seems to be.
The stuff on my desk is three feet deep,
books, papers, things. I wonder what the mice have eaten lately.
What have I missed? The year winds
down
down
down.
I am drafting in the wind of the air conditioning unit.
The sender sends and can never receive,
William Burroughs once said, or something like that.
That's what this feels like...
The rumble never breathes in.
Perhaps I should leave.