The Classroom

They look at me
Their eyes widened,
Imbibing all I flow.
Their mouths dangle
With blow after blow
Of the knowledge
I am transmitting.

One quiet, little boy
Turns away, overloaded.
He needs process time,
But the state does not allow.
I correct his tilt
And shovel more inside.

Bottoms wiggle.
I must rotate positions,
And toast another side.
“Stand up,” I demand,
And I glare at the two
With intertwining feet.

Like flowers in the springtime
The moment you look away,
The children blast upwards,
Projecting their bodies
In different directions.
Quickly they center again,
Their faces turning
Towards illumination.

I am their sun, their light.
I give them fire.
And in my vision
Comes the day
They will orchestrate
Their own productions.

But for now,
Their rhythm
Is a synchronization
Of the state’s and mine.
“Sit down, children,”
I say with my teacher’s voice.
And I continue spooning in
The data of the day.


Winner of the Return of the Son of SLAM Contest 2/15/03