Shake Off Death's Counterfeit

 

Shake Off Death's Counterfeit

 

A wretched, recalcitrant boy

exercising a calculated ploy

to skip loathed French –

and you’d grind your dentures

if you had them, but still possess

a few of the yellowed originals,

calcified from too much smoking,

evidence of a misspent youth –

appears at your office door

looking like the very picture of a sore

loser – migrant, arrogant, unfazed,

stares through the window, glazed,

and gazing at you disengaged,

unwanted – like latent afterscents

of a parent wearing too much oud,

at the fag end of the evening’s queue

to speak his patent rubbish to you

when the homeward bus

is about to take its leave.

Smacking your pen against the desk

and sucking breath

between your teeth,

you disregard his insolent pleas

for understanding, clemency,

drag him by figurative temple hair

back to the classroom, where

you’d throw him to the lions.

You’re tired. This work forms concrete

where cells once were, your feet

heavy that once tripped light fantastic,

in bed you’re lying unasleep,

think to shake off death’s counterfeit,

yet always hear yourself beseech:

there’s merit still in what I teach,

proffer begging bowls just within their reach,

pour words of canker into ears

and negotiate for only one more year.