a (written) spoken word poem

Today he parked his car outside my building

and said, in all seriousness, 

Whenever you're ready. 

As though he'd wait forever for me

to shuffle out that door,

all ruffled hair and tipping coffee and books and bags and

unprepared, but ready

(enough)

for the day.

Wait forever happily,

just to keep himself from being another thing on my mind 

when my hands were already full.

How sweet of him to send a text

when piled atop my flyaways perched invisible

lesson plans and chalky concepts and post it notes.

To send a text as if to say,

Can I carry something for you?

Like the old days when guys were guys and girls were dolls.

And so even when I'm not dolled up

or slept up or brushed up,

I'm up and on the up this morning 

because he checked up and picks me up

and is anything but a disr up tion

on the way to school.

Today they didn't say they hated me --

to my face.

They didn't roll their eyes --

to my knowledge.

They smiled sweetly when they didn't mean it,

which means a lot to me

because they pretended to try. And while

they didn't love the test,

they tried their best

and asked their questions. Questions like, "What's the answer to number 2?"

Today they only locked me out in the hall

when I needed to talk to my absentees in the hall anyway

and when I keyed back in, they didn't look at me like Frankensteins --

the little monsters I created when I told them,

"I'm going to make you do work."

Today they only cussed a little,

and not at me.

So why wouldn't I thankfully smile at them

as they handed me their work

and assure them I'd be back tomorrow?

Of course I would. Today my juniors 

were almost angels.

Today I blasted music, trotting barefoot 

back and forth on years of linoleum grime

that I'm sure facilitates the learning.

I hefted books and sang old songs,

yearning for the concept that 

reorganizing the layout of the room

would help them love the new unit. 

I want them to cooperate as I teach them about social rebellion

and be quiet as I lecture on loud-mouths

who were smart enough to ignore people who called them loud-mouths.

I want them to think quietly to themselves

as I tell them to express their identities

through words and colors and voices. Choices

will have to be made about pedagogy, since they'll call me a hypocrite.

But I thought about that as I trotted
barefoot back and forth. 

And I think I'll bridge that chasm. That schism

between me and them that's supposed to be bridged

with motivation, but the economy or the family or --

what are people saying now? The government? Something's 

closed that off...
Anyway, I'll bridge that gap

by giving a couple inches on the leash 

as I talk them a walk around Harlem's parks

and card sharks and rebellious barks.
I'll let them be rebellious, expressive loud-mouths. At times. 

And when they lark too long, I'll sigh

and remind myself how great the room looks

and tell them to open their books.

Today it was 850 degrees outside.

Well, 70. But here -- and in March, 70 is just the same as
triple digits. All our fidgets are out the window

as windows fly open and frisbees fly

freely and blankets spread neatly

on the grass that's finally dry.

Today, we ate outside

and laughed about our relatives

and spoke in silly accents

until a cold breeze said, "The ide's aren't here

but it's still March," and we marched

ourselves indoors, happy that we could pretend

it was spring, if only for a moment.