Teacher’s Dream


Brian I’m gonna touch you

I’m gonna reach right out

And get you Brian

I’m gonna stretch my hand

Across this morass of baby chairs and desks

Grasp above this great hopeless fluttering

Flap of useless facts and fictions tacked to tired

Construction paper extolling static pictures

Of turkeys, Indians and Martin Luther King.

I’m gonna grab you Brian.

I’m gonna push myself right up against you

Push my nose and face up to the glass

You’re under

And tap your anger

Turn the way you’ve bottled it

So when the cap gets twisted you explode.

Brian, somehow, some way

I’m gonna throw away the locks

And open doors

Prevent your being hitched to this dumb ox of a school

Machine that plans on dragging you on its slow pulley

From third grade

Toward that special prison in the clock tower

Reserved for men like you.

The one for men whose anger blinded them as boys

With a dyslexia so crippling that

They cannot see why they could not listen

To the futile warbling of Mrs. Warden’s voice

In that room of useless maps and directions

Leading nowhere in third grade.

Barbara Tramonte