August Start

Aching back—rather—returning, stumbling in with limited might
to rush cut dust of pencils and the hourly slur of yawning faces—
summer on the wane
with a blast furnace burst outside. My little-bit at home, I miss.
Two months of scrambled eggs, buttered toast, and The Price is Right
have come on down to sudden pain.

I am un-maid. No domestic, I. The dishwasher fully spun,
one day last week, my little piggie that wee-wee-wee-ed
slaughtered in a bloody mess—
now a nicked tendon, a severed artery all swollen.
Some teacher, I. The large white gauze and splint they see,
a ridiculous pointer, at best.

Awards I’ve won, more false than people know, the waste.
Old hat the lectures come, are voiced, without a stutter
to perpetuate a dead man’s taste.
My list of gripes is epic and I’m the biggest pain, the ass.
I’m dressed and prepped, again, again, to stand, to mutter:
Ahem, good morning, class.