I taste toast, tea.
My Honda hurries past houses,
a lake, tree leaves, a traffic light.
My daughter and I discuss drama department drama.
Ninth graders, a nest of nuthatches, natter.
Their clamor calms me. I call the roll.
Too much talking. Take this test.
We wonder about weird world views.
"After reading Rimbaud's rant, write . . ."
Juniors! Monsters to mold into meritorious minds,
angels asking acute questions,
congeries of consciousnesses to cajole.
Lunch. If I'm lucky I'll locate a close colleague, continue
tenaciously to train ourselves to teach.
I read students' writing, render a rubric-based reckoning.
I answer emails,
discuss delinquents,
gossip gleefully,
head home.
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