News of the death of the American public school teacher has been greatly exaggerated (a short poem)

      Teachers and the Stages of Grief.

On one of those

bright early fall days

when odd shadows

cast across hardwood floors

speak of the severity

of changing seasons,

we speak

of how we love our work

as someone in discussion

of the recently deceased.

"Man, we really had a good time

with that lesson on the Federal Reserve,"

I said, falling into it

wistful and bittersweet,

melancholy,

almost tearful.

"He was the nicest guy

you'd ever want to meet,"

I could've been saying

in the same tone.

We're fluctuating between

depression and acceptance

as our work is increasingly

questioned.

Not quite ready

to give in

or give up

on most days,

I'm lobbying to add

revolution

as the final

stage of grief.