i would have been barefoot
with cuffs not hemmed
and rolled
but its not fashion
my jeans are aged
but not from design
i wear my life
into a one roomed class
it dons a bell tower
and, post-toll
no one prays
one instructor for all
each led in divergent direction
according to our abilities
and while the greater lot
learns an appealing cursive script
i curse at the blank pages before me
in my simple way
passing them as notes
but they fall on ears
as barren of hearing
as the recipients feet are
of the callous and sediment
that make mine
breathe life into my narrative
but here no lessons are taught
however gleaned from discord
interpreted through grime
grime and rebuke
filtered through shallow waters
through embattled plains
rife with mole hills and ant piles
scattered with patches of knee high grass
spotted with blooming indigenous flora