Frances

I Will Never Be A Teacher

I will never be a teacher.
If I taught,
I would wring
Necks
I would scream.
You don’t have a hall pass?
I will kick you DOWN the-
Tired today?
I’ve got something that’ll put you to
sleep!
No homework? Again?
Well the agenda today was either
homework or expulsion
And you’ve made your bed
So start
LYING IN IT-

You see kids don’t care.
They don’t.

I loved school.
I loved three
things in
life:
Sims 3,
Harry Potter,
School.

You keep going to school
no matter what in
my family.
You feel sick?
You keep going.
Was up late last night?
You keep going.
Your parents get divorced?
You keep going.
Your friend almost dies,
You keep going.

3 o’clock on a
Monday
afternoon
you
are gored
by a bull with fingers
up against the
wall of a theatre
and your real
indoctrination into acting
starts with
going to school
and
pretending
you are not
still
bleeding
and
you are not
torn up
and
You keep going.

And no one ever knows,
Not till years later,
After you will have blocked it out
and then
remembered
and then told a therapist
who will suggest
maybe it’s not all bulls
and
you will look at her
long
hippie
hair
and see she’s never fought
in the
ring.

And the bull shows up
again.
And again.
But only downtown,
He doesn’t go to your
school.
But he doesn’t come near you anymore,
not since
you fought the first time.
And when
you see the bull around
you feel like fighting,
You shoulder your backpack,
you get out a book.
You watch him lumber off,
don’t wave the red flag, don’t
enter the battlefield-
You turn around and you let the moment
pass.

The law tends to favor the bulls.
(No one’s ever said why, they don’t produce milk.)
You are not a matador
you’re a student.
The bull will die
(someday)
The lifespan of a bull is only 18 years.
After that,
things will be different.
So you’re told in
Health.

And no bull will come near you at
school.
At parties, they stampede girls like grass,
pull at their blades
one by one
But no one ever gores
you again.
Maybe they sense it,
smell it coming off
you in
waves.

It’s not fear
or desire
or anything
but
a white hot rage
that goes into your
handwriting,
makes it jagged
and pens stab through the
page
and ink run along the
heel of your left hand.
So the bulls stay away.
And school is still there.
So you keep going.

I will never be a teacher,
Because I can’t stand it when people don’t care.

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