Friday, November 13, 2015

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.


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