Monday, September 19, 2011

I Am the Worst Teacher

“What’s your poem about,” I ask
The little girl in the front row.

“Death nullifies hope and love,
And the world will forget us.”

She smiles and holds up the paper.
It’s written with ten different crayons.

“That’s wonderful,” I exclaim.
“I love the part about forgetting.”

I move on to the next desk,
A little boy using markers and glue.

“What’s your poem about,” I ask,
And I see he’s drawn skeletons all over it.

“Mine is about dead bodies in graveyards.
And all the wasted suit jackets underground.”

“Genius!” I exclaim.
“Death is such a rich and powerful subject.”

I move on to the next desk,
A little girl with pig tails.

“What is your poem about,” I ask.
She looks at her feet, shakes her head.

“Please tell me,” I plead.
“I’m sure it’s brilliant.”

Her fingers clench the paper,
Lips pursed to the side.

“It’s about an old grandfather
Who rapes his grandson in the basement.”

“Yours is the best poem of all,” I proclaim.
“You get a gold star on the wall.”

Her pride bubbles up onto her face,
Washing her eyes with sparkle.

Her classmates pout and sneer,
Wishing they had thought of it.

No comments:

Post a Comment