"Section Men", by Barry Seiler

I sat in a maze
of carrels dreaming.
Around me colleagues
sat at their desks
before stacks of essays
in search of error.
From time to time
I heard my neighbor
talking to his shrink.
Doc, he cried,
I can’t find anyone,
anyone for tennis.
This Saturday.
No one liked him.
Why should they?
His ex-wife said.
Two semesters and I
never saw his face.
I was a section man,
a term from Harvard
I found in a freshman
comp reader in an
essay by Paul Goodman.
Our creative writing man
dropped dead Easter Sunday.
Burly, bearded, a red and blue
anchor on each forearm,
a hard drinking Hemingway sort,
proud papa of six. Irish
Catholic whispered the Chair.
Of course I took the course.
She forgot she promised it
to me first. Now,
over his dead body,
it was mine. No one
showed when I showed
up for his next class.
Very strange, whispered the Chair
and returned to her office
leaving me to unravel
the mystery.
Accompanied by a campus cop
I went to his carrel
to peruse his papers.
They were part of his estate
and could not be removed
without his widow’s permission.
I could find nothing,
no notes, not even
a roster to exhume
from the mess of papers
scattered over the desk.
The poor man had taken
every secret to the grave.
Later I learned
he canceled one class
a week so everyone
could stay home and create.
I had to admire him
for his creativity.
Next day the department
secretary was instructed
to phone his students
and break the news that
their professor had passed.