My Spanish Professor's Window

Or, what happens when no-one shows up to your meditation class

Every Monday, just before midday 
I rush to my computer, sometimes literally panting, and prepare 
for my meditation class—pull my hair back, 
find the link, put the fan on—all while thinking, boy
am I glad I have to teach this class today
because there is no way I'd do it 
left to my own devices. 

Today, I am sweating, not just from the
 are-you-kidding-me humidity, but
from walking the dog, 
burning the porridge while translating 
texts into Spanish for the apartment 
we're viewing this morning, and arguing 
with our daughter about 
all the things she isn't going to eat for breakfast 
and whether she can watch TV
during our Spanish class. 
"When our parents had errands," 
we tell her, " we just had to wait."
We leave 10 minutes early so 
we can drop two weeks worth of washing 
at the lavanderia before Spanish class, but 
we forget until we are standing 
10 minutes early below the upstairs window
of our Spanish professor's apartment 
right in the middle of town, right 
where you expect a Spanish professor to live. 
Is he actually a professor?
Yo no se  but he is old and has all the 
charm and wit of a Spanish professor and tells us
stories about how he used to take tours to Cuba, 
and lived three decades in New York, and has a
muy bueno singing voice, which gets my husband going
and then they both start singing. Sometimes, 
we ask him, is it this word or that, and he shrugs
it doesn't matter, you choose. We love 
him and try to please him. He tells me 
I am doing well. Sometimes he has to help me 
with the whole sentence so all I have to do is repeat it, 
but even though it's only four words
I have already forgotten them. 
Franco pronounces the magnifico Spanish syllables 
as if he was born here. I wrestle them 
like I'm trying to nail a water balloon
to particle board. Afterwards, 
we race to see la casa se renta. I tell the owner, 
I have to leave in 20 minutes. I have to teach a class.
I make it back just in time to login and wait
for the little message telling me someone 
has entered the waiting room, I recheck 
the link—sometimes I send people
the wrong link. I hear myself telling 
my students: look out for magical moments
that appear in your day, when 
you have one or two minutes free. 
Take them. Trust that taking time out 
will help you more in the long run. 
It's very grounding, I say.

I have not written a poem in a month, and before that 
it was six months. Sometimes, 
you just really want to do more than not do. I hope 
everyone who didn't come to today 
had as much fun as I did
with these 45 minutes.