Big Brother approached a stolid teacher:
"Where's your tie?"
"I've noticed you haven't worn yours today!"
He replies, with a grin
"I had a rough night. --"
An interminable set of chores ...
"I don't want to hear it. Wear a tie to work"
Apples and trees; bells ring.
The mosaic of color blends. He scrambles for a rejoinder.
So, the stolid teacher sighs
and taught another class of happy, eager student to whom an entirely different set of restrictions had been laid out:
Overstuffed maroon sweatshirts
Lack of earrings for the men
Pleated skirts for the girls
Legs outstretched, one chews a pen to it's raw carcass center.
The bitter avowal of knowledge and lessons; Socratic questions; plaintive pleas for individual NESS
A former student visits :
An altercation in form :
Wearing a French style hat, bold cerrulean colors, he says, "hi" -- fresh from some college where self-expression is allowed: its own set of burdens.
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Ties: A Prose Poem
I am an educator and a writer. I was born in Louisiana and I now live in the Big Apple. My heart beats to the rhythm of "Ain't No Place to Pee on Mardi Gras Day". My style is of the hot sauce variety. I love philosophy sprinkles and a hot cup of café au lait.