Here I Sit With a Pasted Smile
Do you want me to play music?
This is a teacher who obviously does not write much.
I was giving them silent thinking time
for the thinking-writing activity I had assigned to them.
I am horrified, but it is her room.
I am the interloper, and she has already asked.
They have said ‘yes’.
Funeral dirge comes out of her computer.
I want to gloat; the kids look up, horrified.
I am here fifteen more minutes
in the bowels of hell with this woman.
Who is insistent on everything a particular way.
Perhaps that is why she has spent a year putting up no bulletin boards?
Only borders. I would rather be wearing an orange jumpsuit,
running from the cops.
But here I sit with my pasted smile
For twelve minutes.
Glad I am not one of these fourth graders stuck here all day.
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