Register Call

A skeletal smirk at the school door - the greeter-teacher; 50 years later, I feel his gimlet eyes at my back, that leer is now plugged with dirt, yet it can still be traced in the brown water stains of mottled toilet walls. A female slave-unit named ‘Miss,’ She never did speak directly to a kid, only through the thin lips of her personal intimidator, a third level teacher who lubricated nerve endings. I am ‘put right’ by a serial wrongdoer with a goose steeping gait, his guppy mouth is a blubbery hellhole. Next, a second-tier maniac with a penchant for angry rhetoric, his large hands flay like windsails as they slap books and heads. A last Piscean reflection, a teach sporting a fish-head grin as he opens a school exit door for me while I gladly leave forever. They would all hate to be in a poem like this so tightly packed together like oily sardines choking on the phlegm of what they could have aspired to, could have been.