Thursday, April 08, 2010

The Classroom

On a concrete canvas,
the people's artist has stencilled a tear
and that same patch of blue sky
that Oscar Wilde could see from his cell.

My teacher is observing me closely,
high up in his one-eyed tower.
I feel his cross hairs tickle,
focus on the back of my neck.

The same drill is repeated,
day after invisible day.
Choose your stone carefully.
Learn to keep your head down.

Slow learners line the streets
to give blood, shrouded
out of proper respect
for your own sensibility.

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