|
| |
Those who teach can’t
For some reason the radiator is on
Some sun skimmed summer
Our ties slung in varying disrespect
Head resting against palm to feign the guise of awake
My desk scrawled with the names of ones before
some etched some gouged
A slug shaped excuse for a mammal gurgling on about that and another
As I watched glints of sunlight skip together outside
like some ethereal game of tag
For some reason the always called me mister followed by the abrasion of my second name
You are hear to learn
Like a cue my head swivelled in unison with my sigh
What can I say look at my teachers
My hands already grasping the denim straps of my makeshift bag dragging the contents and scrunching it within
Deliberately squeaking my chair to watch the vessel in his neck just a fraction more as I rose to leave the room
He still thinks he’s punishing me as I head towards the outside and what will be
Copyright ©
Christopher Quigley
|
|