In the evenings we sit on the back porch and listen to the semis carrying Christmas toys that will be trundled into a closet and buried beneath that one unmatched sock and a torn Pink Floyd T-shirt that was cool last year.
We hear the Puerto Rican street racers in their matchbox Civics winding out gears always shifting and dying too soon, too soon
We watch planes on their wide circling loops of approach; gorged stars that twinkle red, white, red, white — no jazz in their rhythm at all.
We see the orange glow of the city a dreamsicle sky that never melts, only keeps the constellations behind Cassiopeia hidden in the haze.
And we think about Sandburg’s house in North Carolina, the sweep of the long grass away from the porch, into that silent hollow, where small white wildflowers clot the land and one early cricket bleats, bleats, bleats from under a dogwood tree.
so I will know what things to write each day
sothat whenan administrator
teaching style theycan
I have been assimilated
so I cangetmyextra
whereIneeda microscope fromthe
are savvy enough to roll their eyes
at the BeauracracyInPlace
and go on planning their careers
degrees in education
On the event of having to remove 2 easy chairs from my classroom because they violate the fire code which was the same fire code last year when the chairs were okay.
A few days ago, Charley over at Life in Portofino published a poem entitled A Matter of Love, in which he gave his unique spin on defining the word ‘Reach.’ It sparked something for my muse and Charley was good enough to allow me to borrow his word for the title and topic of this poem for Day 6 of my personal Poem-A-Day challenge.