I see the students looking at me as I teach
I see their bored, dull faces
I see anxiety, and the deep, passionate boredom of angsty teens
I hear them behind me as I write on the board for them to learn

About Walt, about list-poems, and life, you see
They are whispering and think I do not hear

"One taught me love" - to love the subject what you study, to love the that learn is so much fun.
"One taught me patients" - while you failed the test you be patient with it and never give up to next challenge.
"One taught me pain"- when you can't get the result you want.

skirting the rusty rose of a brooch
dangling on canvas bodice as she leans
tightly over me; the waves of wrinkles
on her be-bangled red hands pointing to the
wrong punctuation; this is dream-building
in the fifth grade; don't end the dream
too soon, she gruffs sing-song like
a prize-winning racoon; and still applauds
the bricklaying we so clumsily feign
for our castles in the sky; tho she, too,
dies of cancer in the last year; the tubes at the
very last weaving through the canvas;
something of a final stitch to the making
of a dream; and so i think all dreams in me
they die in darkness and still i wonder
what happens to the crenellated castle
walls i abandoned scores of years and
many As ago; and still we pat our doeeyes
on their infinitile heads and **** our
cynical shacks-by-the-forest-fires back
into our heads, begging beneath the
damp light of early-onset reverie: save
us, won't you, from the stiff stillborn of
dreams our generation lost to the fantasy
of getting what the saddest, dreamless
dollared dupes decree; oh be better yet for me,
my naive sums, and take your brick-laying;
your canvas sheen; your impossible, doubtless
dreams with broach and gnarl; with gruff and
soundless trill; your soulful self metastasized  
with every beat
to the happy grave.

Down the luminous hallway lined with rough white walls,
murmurs from the students and teachers flowed from the classrooms.
At the end of the seemingly never-ending hall,
A bright red exit sign loomed over the cool stairwell.
Footsteps echoed as we made our way down.
Snow softly dusted down, creating a white hazed view of the world outside the window.
The halls now littered with artwork hung to the walls.
The smell of wood floats about.
Music and machines mix together overlaying the hushed voices.
Down the opposing hall, burnt coffee and the rattling of the kitchen fill the empty space
As footsteps bounce from wall to wall.
The white lights shine off trophies
Screams and squeaks, muted by the walls sound through this hall.
Hums from the dripping fountain mask the voices
Leaving them to be nothing but whispers.