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