Let us have schools
where math teachers make the poetic meanings
of numbers come through the way Satchmo played
his trumpet to make our mathematic imaginations emerge,
where a passion and sense for science and how we do it
drift in the air for all to breathe,
where phys-ed coaches reduce us not to competitive engines
but bring our bodies and minds together
in duets to sing meanings yet to unfold,
where no kid feels like a factory spitting out pre-designed stuff,
but more like the artist engaging the waiting canvass
the poet the blank page, the dancer the open floor,
where minesweeper administrators clear the way for teachers
to beget in minds of boys and lives of girls
flashes of aha, creations of wow, insights of awe,
where we make of ourselves primordial soup,
generating life from all that waits within,
stirring passions high and deep as throats of cathedral organs,
where taxpayers and legislators deliver resources
to schools as freely and fairly as earth engenders its air,
where graduates give hugs and letters
to teachers, principals and parents,
saying thanks for showing us our compass,
lighting our fires, modeling the stand-tall integrity
it takes to live out what we discovered,
where we rebirth ourselves, our neighbors and our people
by becoming the music we hope to hear.