The School Bell Poem by Jack Galmitz

They had our faces.
They wore our clothes.
Nothing seemed unusual then
when they began to unbolt
the desks from the floor.
The schoolhouse was old
and could use something new.

After the desks, they boxed
the books from the shelves
and carried them out to an awaiting
van. Nothing was too suspect.
More men came in and removed
the blackboard from its central place.
As I said, they were ordinary men.

When they took down the portrait
of Lincoln from the wall,
I coughed; that was all.
When they removed the taped
portrait of Washington, I gasped,
but did nothing else.
As I said, they were like us.

They wrapped up the flag that stood
in the corner of the room, you know the type
that has a golden eagle at its crown.
Then they took the lectern in the back
upon which the large dictionary sat,
the one that had been there since the school began.
It was then that I blocked their path.
I would not let them pass. I would not let them
take all the words that were there.
There was not a chance of that.