I see ovals, lush and green, in my teacher’s verdant, fiery eyes;
He’s no tyrant, really, just an old, lost soul deprived of love.
He wears a plastic name tag, and on each hand a leather glove
To stop us seeing his red, rheumatic hands; so duty-rotten they’re covered in flies.
And in his eyes we children play, and grin, and laugh all day.
Painless, graceful and muscular like untroubled youthful gods;
Cussing and pissing in free air, making up words, and evading the rods
Of unjust cruelty that jar human hearts and drive sunny smiles away.
He whirrs away, too busy today, to change the world and let us play.
But we catch him staring at the spring sky, glistening and longing;
He wants to be like us again, to cultivate the illusions of belonging
That stem from the fields of utter youth, and slowly decay.
