Substitute Teaching

Eighth grade classroom drama.
This was me once.

Arkansas juvenile poverty
in their over-sized hand-me-downs and their
high-waters with torn knees and their
greased hair and dirty mouths.

I've never known need.

My burning throat from
raised voice over their
eighth grade classroom drama
rasps that they'll never listen to me.

Comparing stories of their
pre-bell fistfights and their
jr. prom late nights and they're
all caught in themselves.

We all know need.

So I go on substitute teaching.