“Then We Won’t Have To Go To Work”
The road folds into the fog ahead
of me and behind me
as I sail down a narrow
highway, destined for the confusion—
muddled drama of eighth grade.
Inherent despair marked by a trilogy
of compassion, hope, patience that over
eight hours, gingerly becomes anger,
disgust and passiveness.
I watch from the front of my class—
room, ninety-one students filter
the words I say through the lines
of their notebook paper. I wonder
as I raise my voice, if they can hear
me over their hormones—their
attitudes—their forced carelessness.
Over my carelessness... or, self-possessed
laziness, lack of sleep and frustration.
Do you ever hate your job? I ask another
first year teacher. She laughs, then says
seriously: “I drive too fast with my tire pressure
too low hoping to crash—then we won’t have to go to work.”
Comments