I’m a teacher
getting older
becoming one of the nameless men
that taught me.
I used to wonder:
Who are these guys
who thought it was a good idea
to come back to school
after they’d escaped?
Some days I’m a mist of adulthood,
hovering over the classroom,
hiding in the cracks in the walls,
ignoring the jokes of my students.
Other days I’m an 8th grader too,
just
grown taller
and greyer,
balder,
and fatter.
And it hurts
when the other kids don’t like me.
Apr 6, 2018
Apr 6, 2018 at 2:56 PM UTC
I’m a teacher
getting older
becoming one of the nameless men
that taught me.
I used to wonder:
Who are these guys
who thought it was a good idea
to come back to school
after they’d escaped?
Some days I’m a mist of adulthood,
hovering over the classroom,
hiding in the cracks in the walls,
ignoring the jokes of my students.
Other days I’m an 8th grader too,
just
grown taller
and greyer,
balder,
and fatter.
And it hurts
when the other kids don’t like me.
In this poem I try to answer Gwendolyn Brooks' essential questions of poetry: Who are you? and How do you feel about yourself?
Request permission to use this poem