Les plus lus ▸
Dave Bonta
My teacher resembles a flightless bird:
the sky, to him, is an open book
written in a foreign tongue,
his enormous eyes are no bigger
than his three stomachs & when
he sticks his head in the sand, it isn’t
to evade the truth but to remember it
by being alone with his terrors.
The fine golden hair,
White shiny teeth,
Hourglass figure,
The definition of beauty,
With eyes as blue as the sky,
Full, luscious lips,
Strong legs like that of an athlete,
The definition of beauty,
Silence fills the room as she enters,
Heads turn instantly,
Mouths agape,
The definition of beauty,
With all attention on her,
She opens her mouth,
Stumbles over her words,
In a cringe-inducing sound,
I went to sleep
thinking I would see
your beautiful smile
that makes my heart go 100 miles
the next morning
everything was fine
I was on time
got my things
thinking I would see you.
A teacher with a glum face
"strange day" I say
going on my way
I take my seat
a little up beat
when I see
a tear or three
When I was young my teachers were the old.
I gave up fire for form till I was cold.
I suffered like a metal being cast.
I went to school to age to learn the past.
Now I am old my teachers are the young.
What can’t be moulded must be cracked and sprung.
I strain at lessons fit to start a suture.
I go to school to youth to learn the future.
The truth is the basketball coach
assigned to teach geometry disliked
both sports and angles. Plays
he drew on chalkboards looked like
problems, problems like plays. He
calculated the area of the rectangular
court to be most pleasant when
empty and only echoes cheered.
He coached his classes best when
a fire-drill called time-out and he
might stand shyly in the courtyard
next to her, the English teacher—close
enough to look, for instance, at her ears,
or smell her sweet breath,
care for her tender shoulders.
His job was an amorphous shape between