I came up from under the essays, longed for sea-soaked beaches. A paper hound, building-bound, I’ve overdosed on chalk, talk.
Desks, sweater vests. I’m done repeating, beating the life out of every dead poet.
Which is to say, I want a new job. I’m at a loss.
Where do schoolteachers go when their eyes dry out? Trolling the job search sites, sending out resumés,
I hit only my current boss, with every boomerang I toss.
Been too long indoors, tracing the same halls like an Etch-a-sketch. Security footage: me abandoning my class, disappearing on one screen, reappearing on another—now with coffee, papers lost. Large bottle of painkillers in my tote bouncing against my hip like a maraca, I plod through the blur to file report cards like taxes. Isolated in my classroom, I’ve inflamed passersby with my rants. Each desperate colleague who escapes my chamber, wobbles off to clobber a neighbour.
At a posh resort I’ll be a dishwasher, that’s what.
I’ll stand all day—no sitting at a desk for me!— arms in a mini hot tub, a half-spa, swirling my cloth in creamy white mugs, facing the ocean over a silvery sink where cutlery chimes like lobsters inside metal traps. Someone quiet and likeable will pass me plates. My hands sponge gravy, but worry seeps in, my mind drifts from scraping scraps, to my stack of job apps.
Customers crowd into my dream, wreck it.
The clatter of others rushing around me. Bastards in line waiting to pay, staring me down for my greasy whites. Bitchy customers, their faces through the horizontal space between eating area and dish pit, where rubber-gloved arms cycle in an endless waterwheel.
Clean corporate hands straighten silk ties this way, then that way. A different job is still a job.
The dream dissipates, uncurls like an eel, circles back to chain me to this desk of steel.