This is new, and I have many conflicting emotions about it. Seldom do I get a final line that reads so much like a final line; still, the tale of “her” isn’t finished. I’d love to hear any thoughts you may have. This piece is a bit of a departure for me, so I really don’t know if I’m doing things well.
She never made it as a teacher
Because she liked the meth too much,
And mornings suck
When they happen
At the same time every day.
She had loved the kids,
She did, oh yeah;
So many of them
Mini morons, so eager
To nod their heads
And say “oh yeah”
and to give that knowing chuckle
that says, “I know where you’re coming from.”
But none of them knew
much of anything anyway,
least of all her,
but she did when things were good though,
when it worked,
because she was a bigger version of her,
a super her,
a knowing her
an insightful her,
and she knew that if she could just get them all to…
If they would all just listen.
But they wouldn’t, and
she didn’t make it as a teacher,
and she wound up doing whatever,
still showing up at the same haunts
and trying to put on
the mask of a woman she once was.
I’ll see her on the street occasionally,
and she always looks as if it’s winter.