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I DON’T HAVE ANY MORE POEMS LEFT. I’VE POEMED THEM ALL FOREVER.  Sorry for the capscream, I just hate Wednesdays, and this Wednesday I hate most of all. Worst one yet.  I’ve lost my temper and bitched out a room full of 35 exhausted teenagers, felt scared and threatened at work for the third time this month (after five years of feeling very secure, so what’s going on there? I have some ideas, but I’m not into them right now), driven home on the dark slush, checked in with HP, who described our exhausted daughter’s tantrum to me, leading me to question all the parenting choices, but none more the choice that leads me to not see them until five o’clock tomorrow night (except for during for the morning rush, which is its own circle of hell).  Can this be my poem tonight? I just bitch about my job for some lines, and go to bed?

Sorry. I am. I just feel a lot like this: oystertoadfish

This fish’s name is OysterToad Fish, according to the internet. My kindred spirit.

The only idea I had tonight was to write a metapoem.  Now I don’t want to. Nor do I want to write about this fish. Wasn’t kidding when I said I was out of poems. I’m going to try to poem super fast. Like, twenty minutes fast, because twenty minutes is my bedtime.

Here:

Teacher Imagines Life With Money

There’s money to be made, she’s heard, in writing for purchase or virtual learning, but she isn’t imagining how its earned.  Just stepping away from the great gaping vortex of want and need and desire, just hiding out by the creekside and raising her babies right. Why don’t we get a farm, the oldest asked? When we don’t have to work so much we will get a farm, she said. When will that be?

When she stops caring about the broken children and trades in her soul for reasonable hours?

When she forgets about the funny egobeasts and the unsure wallpaper girls flowering quietly?

When she discards the nobility of the teachers, the grandest clan, to whom she belongs, each penflick and jokey correction her initiation rites?

It doesn’t seem likely.

But climbing the stairs, after picking up the spraining toys, and stepping around the sounding boards she knows by heart, into the nightlight glow, she regrets every devoted moment spent on the children of others, and brushes their hair back with her lips, breathes deeply the sweet breath, and

each soft snore is an accusation.

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Okay, I did it in twenty minutes! Not thrilled, but whatevs, I get to go to bed. Happy Wednesday, you people who read poems. HUGS TO YOU, wherever you are.

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