breathed-on window

I wish there were a word or phrase
I instantly thought of
whenever my fingers
met a frosted glass
on an autumn evening
--the wet blank canvass reminds me of
curlicue cursive Mrs. “Blanks”
in the margins
of school girl notebooks
we couldn’t wait to burn
under the bonfire of a summer sun
smiling that school is done
and that we’ve won
against an onslaught
of rote memorization of
remote preparation
for even more degrees…
but forgive me for digressing
so far from the topic,
Holden’s classroom
better scold me
for not being as myopic
it just so happens that idealists get lost
in those idea(ls)
and wish there were
just one
they could scrape through window dew
and say to all of you
“listen! even when no one speaks”…