Some Unkind of Teacher

 Some Unkind of Teacher

 

Some unkind of teacher, leaving

late for class, of practiced snarl

self-chiseled on lacquered wood.

She convinces herself she’s good

and sure maybe, years ago, she was,

hard to see anything now, though,

where once was care, nothing dares,

but thin thinking under grizzled hair,

and all those hopeful children there.

But she loathes them with a passion

once reserved for many a lover left,

parks ample arse behind her desk,

swipes left, phone set on diversion,

every face scowling back aversion

in scoured looks and scrubber's nails

and repulsion and resentment grows,

she’s retired but she does not know.

Still seething hot from photocopier,

worksheets slapped down, red raw,

rubbed eyes are looking for the door

or anxious at slow brooding clock,

clicks and clucks but lays no eggs,

creation held in stillborn bays, dregs

drained from coffee cup’s bottom,

reads tealeaves, her cares forgotten

who one day as they’re looking back,

will loath a teacher that they lacked.