If we mourned our birth, would we smile
at our funeral?

Look at us
standing in front of the blackboard,
diligently noting all the knick-knacks
that make up our daily routine.
Nothing but chalk dust.

We can’t even order ourselves some rain,
let alone find someone really nice
to listen to La Vie en Rose—no wonder
the soufflé is too soggy tonight.

If we mourned our birth, would we break
through the shrill screech of chalk?