Chalk

for Graddy.

My professor's wrinkly hands twist around
a piece of chalk, and those little white flecks
land softly and settle into dust on my notebook
and I giggle into my careful notes and doodles.
Smudges of snow appear on his red sweater vest,
a brush of it on his nose should be a catalyst
to sneezing or itching or suffocation.
But I'm wrong. And the chalk continues on
with harshness and powerful angles
not knowing that in the passing of an hour
it will be reminded of its own fragility.
What written words were willed and wielded
inside its strong pillar of perfection
will be swept from the blackboard
into a fine and harmless powder.
But like so many words in a lecture
it can still choke after the evidence is gone.