Doze
poem - 2015
dedicated to every student i’ve ever had the honor to teach
After work,
once I’ve told all of my high school juniors to get their act together or get out of my class.
I stagger my way back into my unmade bed and sleep,
or rather, doze. D-O-Z-E.
The same way Anthony spells “does” on his work,
with neat, neat handwriting, half-asleep at the thought that his spelling might be off.
Anthony doze not always understand sophisticated essay structure,
but damn it, I’m not going to let his pencil's stop writing until it's a stub he can barely grasp.
This is the glory that all of my pre-teaching days have brought me:
wiping the sharpener shavings off of the bookshelf,
finding rotting orange rinds stuffed inside desks
covered with dick doodles and homophobia in poor grammar:
“You know who likes men? You dose.”
Not do. Not does. Dose. D-O-S-E.
Whatever God there is took her stethoscope to my chest
prescribed me a daily dosage of teenage, hormone-induced madness
At 7:45, one dose of angst:
Jordan bombs the midterm on purpose
to protest the capitalism that has swarmed public schools.
At 10:17, one dose of laughter:
upon discovering that Hamlet's mother
may have been in on his father's murder,
Gabe remarks, “So, she thottin' and plottin'?”
At 2:15, promposals.
Not one, but two.
Dos. D-O-S.
The number of states the ESL kids have actually visited: New Gerci and New Jork.
They giggle at their funny tongues,
but they are the only ones that could navigate the rainstorm that is Mr. Rodriguez.
I translate for them - my mouth, a more welcoming Ellis Island, a glimpse into this New World,
where every kid is trying to transcribe their name into a universal language.
Yet they are afraid to ask,
“Am I going to stand out?
Does it all sound the same?”
Does. D-O-E-S.
I get to remind them that even a variable letter can make a universe of difference.
Does. Doze. Dose. Dos. Each one a song in its own key and tempo.
Listen to the music each one of us leaves in the air.
Look at how much, when we're together, we can do.
