John K. Samson The Last And
So I'm the first one in again
with the quiet and the window growing snow.
When I hear the furnace rouse itself
from its slumber, somehow suddenly I know,
As my eye stops on one curled up on my lesson plan,
that I’m just your little ampersand.
When your voice springs from the inter-com,
with announcements and reminders and a prayer,
I remember how you made me feel:
I was funny, I was thoughtful, I was rare
But like the jokes about my figure
kids think that I don’t understand:
I know I’m just your little ampersand.
An after Christmas holidays,
when you never asked to drive me home again,
and sometimes in the staffroom I
catch your eye with why'd it have to end.
But I know from how you worry at your wedding band
that I’m just your little ampersand.
At the last conjunction after every other "and"
I was just your little ampersand
