Posted in Lies

Grace Notes

The accent made it difficult to take offence
South Carolina – clear and low
slow poured caramel
even the mundane sounded sensual.
Once in class relating a story
she said in direct quotation, “fuck you.”
And blushed
the men in the room melted. They wished.

her smile a painted backdrop
the span exactly right
not too narrow, not too wide.
Bored adolescents. Lessons unravelling. Disdainful associates
perhaps teaching was not the right career.

A pause. The smile switches to soulful
abandonment seemed the obvious course
perhaps some valedictory comments?
The smile is put on full beam.

“Some issues of personality
prohibit stepping out of self
switching between educator and entertainer
a rather grave disadvantage for a high school teacher.”
The smile dazzles.
a feeling of having been sent to war without a gun.
The smile retreats. She doesn’t understand.
An explanation that preparation may have been inadequate
the instructor somewhat remiss.

The vamoosed smile.
Blank…. Mission Control has lost the feed
….. a scrabbling pause
backup kicks in.
Her role is not to teach teaching
but to provide a toolbox
into which a classroom teacher should dip
and select the appropriate tool.

It was difficult to ridicule the ridiculous
spoken in such beautiful tones.



Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.

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