Evening Class
by Michael Brown
The death of our star will go unremarked.
You could tell he was pleased with the weight
of the silence he’d made, the way
all of us looked up from our notes
as if to guage how safe it was to laugh.
Someone coughed and raised a hand.
I turned the page and no-one spoke,
marked this small poem of our life,
each fold and break to dark.
You could tell he was pleased with the weight
of the silence he’d made, the way
all of us looked up from our notes
as if to guage how safe it was to laugh.
Someone coughed and raised a hand.
I turned the page and no-one spoke,
marked this small poem of our life,
each fold and break to dark.