as if she was hiding herself
from the school of Life,
taking asylum in our classroom,
and smirked at our ignorance.
Another taught like Life itself,
uplifting and terrifying us
subtly, at intervals,
usually asking me to sing
in front of the whole class -
as if rhythm was the only thing
amiss in her way of teaching.
Yet another, while teaching,
one day wept, as if
we were dead at the word,
and wiped tears, not with any napkin
but with a paper, as if
the ink had solidified enough.
This one, however,
keeps ticking everyone off
as if no one existed, as if
nobody uttered any sounds,
no one wrote anything down -
as if, even this poem wrote itself off.
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