White-knuckled fists
and a list
of tasks not yet accomplished --
orders, ideals, a wish
lingering at the close of each day --
making torment of dreams, the bed in which you lay.
Who, if not you, will reach these kids?
Rocking side-to-side, hands raised like bids,
the day metered by taps,
clapping. Laughter saps
such resolve, rattles your stable approach
like a slap stills tightly stretched strings. A reproach,
but who can resist that smile?
And why? Single file
and silent, they march -- like soldiers.
They sit facing the front. Soon, their teachers
will be strange, voluntary answers
taboo, and you will be a memory. Your successors
will be oblivious to the torments
of these kids -- tying a shoe, the negligence
of parents, ten minutes
till lunch, time ticking like a pulse. Bits
of kid -- hair tufted and at attention,
a shy grin -- will haunt your abscission.
No comments:
Post a Comment