Shelter under Glass

The seventh grade came to visit
my greenhouse. The teacher said
they are studying flowers. They
arrived in a school bus—I could
not deny the request—and filed
in past the teacher who stood
at the door and spoke tight words
out of a fixed smile. The boys
dropped their jackets, the girls
carried theirs as better mannered.
They all kicked boxes on the floor, 
complained of the dirty sink,
joked about broken pots. They left
like a trampling herd, praised
everything, thanked me to death,
moved as from a plague. Flattery
did not warm me nor was I soured
with exasperation. I watered
the African violets, moved some
begonias out of the sun, wondered
about Plato’s ideal greenhouse.
Beyond my lair far out in the distance
I knew men hurried to keep step
with the sun while children
dawdled on the way to age.