John Sinclair On Parent
Teacher Day
The hair was kudzu cowed
some, half
tamed dark rogue storm
cloud beetled
above a wooly Bolshevik glower,
eyes
folded fortune cookies concealed
behind thick
lenses corralled in thin
metal frames, hands
jammed deep into the pockets
of his gulag great
coat concealing what?
a
carbine,
the
manifesto du jour,
stashed
pharmacopeia,
a lulled bear driven out
of hibernation, higher
brain warming on a back burner
or
so I imagined, a student
teacher with nothing
better to do, the morning blocked
out in
neat fifteen minute intervals,
four small
chairs, sturdy oak table,
grade book open, ready.
The teacher checked his
watch from time
to time, two monks pledged
to an uneasy silence
until he lumbered in, our
sole customer that morning,
nodding at news of his
daughter, a dewy eight
or nine, nervous, tall for
her age. A strict observer
I nodded along in smug solidarity,
alone
in my recognition of moribund
underground
royalty, self-appointed
Peter denying Christ,
beholden to the man for my
grade.
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