Two Poems on Teaching

Teaching World History II

The voice weaves in
through my open doorway
from the classroom down the hall.

Like talking wind,
or seeking vines,
or blackberry canes with thorns.

He’s a midway barker,
a sword swallower,
a fairground carnival ride.

Yesterday, I saw him juggle
One orange, partly eaten
A paper-clip, and
a single battered copy of
Glencoe’s World History II.

Child Left Behind

You ain’t got nothing to teach
me. No, I don’t got to sit down.

I hate this class. I hate this school.
Why can’t I go to the lav now?
I ain’t got nothing to learn.

All I was doing was looking.
What? I wasn’t doing no
thing. That wasn’t fair. It wasn’t me.
He did it first. That wasn’t mine.

Why are you just such a bee–
—atch?
All I was doing was laughing.
No, I don’t got to sit down.

You ain’t got nothing to teach me.
I ain’t got nothing to learn.

Won’t let you have nothing
to teach
me.

Don’t wanta have nothing

to learn.

.