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Building a Better Bomb
“Wake up, dear. It’s time to go to school.”
“Aw, I don’t wanna.”
“But you have to, dear. You’re the teacher.”
The words are dead. The sentences came out stillborn,
no doubt about that. The only lively passages
are the plagiarized ones. The teacher looks at the
clock. It’s only been ten minutes. He looks at the stack
of essays. A disheveled tower of incompetence waiting
to ruin his weekend, hundreds of pages scrawled
with graffiti, tattooed with text. He looks at the
students. Their bored boring faces remind him of how
long he had to attend college just to babysit the future
inmates of San Quentin. Babysitting body bags.
Babysitting dust. He looks at the clock. It’s only been