My Beloved Teachers
The greeter-teacher,
the smirkier at the door.
I feel his gimlet eyes at my back
and though it is 5o years later
and his mouth is now plugged with dirt
his leer can be traced
in the brown water stains
of mottled walls.
A female slave-unit whose name was ‘Miss’
I cannot recall her ever speaking to a child directly,
only through the thin lips of her personal intimidator
a third level teacher who spat into her ear
as if sexually lubricating her fears.
I am put right by a serial wrongdoer.
A second tier maniac with a lust for rhetoric.
His large hands flay like wind-sails, they
slap books and heads.
On, on,
through narrowing corridors and echoing rooms
counting sadists, ticking off
a long mental list of ghouls
all dead and gone
except for the abusive drills.
One dead grinning fish-head
even opens a door for me
as I leave forever.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2020
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