His fingers are covered with blackboard chalk dust,
Which pass frequently over cratered nodules
Of flapping, undulating facial skin.
Who’s to say we need to listen to this or that from
Teacher/Joker with his pores gaping open,
Like mini orifices, which collect dust
Of grimy school yard trash heaps and classroom
Germs from our coughs and cafeteria belches?
He takes all this into his ruddy skin,
And spews it out in judgments upon our work;
He emits all this noxiousness out in words
Of no encouragement. His face of dust
Pans the room of would-be scholars, druggies,
Gas station attendants and practical nurses.
We know not what our pre-adult skin
Holds in store for our futures and families —
For our next day or the day after that —
Because the bible says we are all of dust
And to dust we shall return from our skin (but, they don’t teach this in high school).
Posts
