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 in my lesson plan,
that I'm just your little "&."
When your voice springs from the intercom
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 I don't understand,
I know I'm just your little "&."
After Christmas holidays
you never asked to drive me home again.
And sometimes in the staff room 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 "&."
At the last conjunction, after every other "and,"
I was just your little "&."
