He walks in, trying not to make a sound. The kids look up for a moment, then return to writing. he stands at the door, looking around until the teacher approaches.
"Can I help you?"
"What is this?" the man asks.
"It's poetry class." The man doesn't respond, but there's something there that makes the teacher say:
"Would you like to join us?" Slowly, the man nods.
Pencil in hand, notebook on his lap, he sits in the corner of the room, scribbling pages and pages of words.
When it is time to share, no one raises their hands. Except him. He stands, shakily, and reads four lines.
No one finds any particular meaning in his words, but by the end he is crying.
When the students are gone, the man goes to the teacher and embraces him.
"Thank you," he says. "Thank you," quieter the second time.
The teacher feels uncomfortable at first, but he returns the embrace and softly pats the man's back.
"Yeah," he says.
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