The Square on the Hypotenuse

He stares, blindly, through the window.

“Good morning, Mr. Reeves,” say the children,
as steadily it snows on the playground and the trees.

Attempts to get his brain in gear – picks up the chalk,
scrawls a sum. Winces as it screeches on the blackboard,
teeth all on edge, it shatters in his fingers.

Whispers echo round the newly whitewashed walls, say
there must be some mistake. Four plus three isn’t eight.

They don’t quite understand … Nor does he.

He fidgets with his collar, taps on the table
with an ink-stained wooden ruler he’s owned,
man and boy, since his Baliol days.

Snatches at his brow; tries to recall Pythagoras’ theorem.

They chortle – sman. Cower behind cupped hands.
He slouches at his table, white head bowed.

And to crown it all, his dog had died that morning
after sixteen faithful years.

Still clutching his ruler, he shuffles to the door.

In total silence they watch as he closes it behind him,
stumbles out across the car-park – tie at half-mast.

Fumbles in his pocket, as customarily he did
but still he keeps on walking.

He’s mislaid something, but he’s not sure what
as steadily it snows on the playground and the trees.

Say the children, smiling, “Goodbye, Mr. Reeves.”