I am a teacher now,
which shocked me in my 30s.
A misspent youth,
and ignorance,
suffered a stroke of dumb luck.
And I am a good teacher.
I can see where others have
jumped the boat
too soon.
Have drowned in the shallows.
There are schools I prefer.
The updated new ones
don’t impress me,
nor do the ones up north
in the city.
There are still old ones,
In our state,
Somewhere between here,
and 50 years ago.
In the fields, in the city.
I can see myself in those schools,
a boy with a book,
reading a dictionary for fun,
the AC didn’t always work,
and the lockers were old.
The schools I love
have chipped paint,
windows that don’t
always close the whole way;
Ants visit in the summer.
My precious schools
have old gyms.
Their libraries are covered
in dust,
The books are just as old.
The bathrooms
always need repair.
Classrooms become
conference rooms.
Nobody seems to care.
I never knew why.
Then I found out.
In my life,
when I was happy most,
was in those classrooms.
When my mind wasn’t clouded.
The mists and fog
had not smothered my brain,
where existentialism did not sting
yet, and pierce the inner cortex.
I was just a boy,
who loved reading,
and writing,
and making friends,
and sounding smart.
As a teacher,
I see my desk
in the back of the room.
Sometimes I smile,
while sometimes I cry.
I appear happy and tentative,
but I pay no mind,
as I never did anyway.
Thumbing through a book,
and drifting away to shadow.
Knowing I was happiest there.
In the schoolhouse.
I can never go back.
