Latest Posts, Poetry

My Not Favorite Teacher

I looked up at him

With my best stern

look, sassy

look, a look

that told him I was serious.

Standing jaunty like

with arms

on hips, feet

wide apart, head

slightly cocked,

and wide eyes.

Tight lips

with a downward curve.

Just like my momma shows me

every time I get in trouble.

 

Which is often. I mean:

only sometimes, and

maybe never.

I’m a good girl. Really!

Even when my teacher calls

home and speaks to momma

through an interpreter.

 

I didn’t do nothing. That’s why

I stand there staring

scowling, and showing

my teacher I mean:

I’m serious. He’s my favorite,

but now he’s not.

I’m in trouble with momma,

so he’s in trouble with me.

 

So I stand and stare

like momma scowls

at me, just waiting

for him to say… something.

But you know what

he said:

“What’s that look for?”

And my reply:

a frown and an upward

tilt of my head

and a jut of my jaw.

But he says nothing,

so you know what I said?

I said:

“You should know.”

 

And he

he just

just smiled

and said

Nothing.

 

Can you believe the nerve? But, I just

walked, no

stomped in silence

away from him

my not favorite teacher.

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Latest Posts, Poetry

Beneath a Cloudy Vacancy

Smoke puffs and ponders before

billowing and wisping through a window

exchanging a cool breeze for the final

grey thoughts of a weary traveler

chewing on the nub of a glowing cigar

that is soon grasped between

the index and middle finger of his hand

gripping a greying steering wheel

while the other reaches for a mug.

 

Steam rises with pondering participation

from the mug filled to the brim

and much too hot to gulp

and weary traveler gags,

thoughtlessly throttled awake

as grey ash plunks down

upon his pant leg

causing him to place down

with speed and care the mug

so as to avoid marking up

the other leg with the piping

stains of a meaningless musing.

 

Brushing away streaks of grey carelessness

and dissatisfied with the results

weary traveler takes another go

at his mug and sips,

squinting into the sunny overcast

and seeing, perhaps a mile or so,

the dark seduction of a stormy sky

and he sighs into the air spicy

with rain, exhaust, and cigar smoke.

 

Drops plunk poignantly upon

the windshield of weary traveler’s car

as he takes a deliberating drag

on the soggy remains of a cigar

now unpleasant to puff

and tosses it out the window

and into the air heavy with mist

as the pitter-patter picks up pace

and wind pushes weary traveler’s

car from side to side

plunking with rapid speed

drops of rainfall

bringing traffic

to a halting

stop.