The rustic teacher, behind her dust-covered desk, speaks-
Of a topic she’s droned on about for many, many weeks.
She creaks as she stands and walks to the front of her class,
Retrospectively she blinks at students not willing to pass.
For an instant she’s seated in a pupils’ small desk,
Her hands are not feeble, she has no breasts.
She’s young again and not interested in learning,
For the bell to ring is all she finds herself yearning.
In that brief instant, youth was all she knew,
Then she drifted back to — ”Homework is due!” –
She finds herself speaking in a harsh dry tone,
Then the bell rings and she’s left all alone.
Slowly she shuffles back to her seat…
Feeling sharply, her aching hands and feet…
As she sits, she half wonders aloud-
If, in her reminiscence, she stood any more proud.
She weeps at her age, her wrinkled body, and elderly drone-
Then she composes herself and begins her trip home.
She’ll be there tomorrow, with students the same,
With another lapse of youth and another lapse of pain.
She’ll speak just as harshly, she’ll ramble more yet,
And try to teach her students what she’s beginning to forget.