A Day in the Life
Days 6-7 of this 30 day poetry challenge have run together for me. I started writing this piece yesterday, inspired by the moment in the morning when I arrive at school and enter the classroom, but it wasn't until today's prompt of writing about a superpower lit the spark of inspiration that this piece really came together. It's not really about a superhero, or even a superpower, just a woefully underfunded teacher facing a powerful foe.
Once More Into the Breach
So it begins,
daily.
Early morning light slanting across the ground
illuminates yesterday's shrapnel,
the detritus of our daily struggle.
Across camp, weary officers
stand on line at the canteen,
armed with copies, checklists, and coffee.
Back on the field, I inspect
my armory and munitions.
My weapons aren't the newest.
Most of them, I bought myself.
The Department insists we should
"eliminate waste,"
fight more conservatively,
ration our meager supplies.
I don't think the windows at Headquarters
look out onto the battlefield.
It seems to me that some corners
could have been cut by
reducing
the mountain of paperwork
teetering precariously on the corner of my desk.
I sigh.
No time for that now.
A low rumble, as of thunder, announces
the approach of the horde.
Their arrival is accompanied by
shouts, stomping, slamming doors.
I steel myself to face the enemy.
My recruits stream onto the battlefield.
Undisciplined and unruly,
they grab their weapons
and take their positions, but I marvel
at how much more efficiently they fight now
than they did last fall
when their training began.
I marshal my troops every day,
arming them with
books and discussion;
together,
we fight formidable foes:
ignorance and apathy.
Some days, we lose.
Others, we stagger from the field after a disappointing stalemate.
It's fairly seldom that we end the day
with a stunning victory.
We soldier on each day,
and as troops move up the ranks,
I begin anew with more recruits.
I guess we will always be underfunded and outgunned.
Sometimes, it seems like the Department is shooting at us
more frequently than the enemy.
Many days we treat victims of friendly fire,
because some of the recruits
desert and defect,
fail to follow orders or break their position.
Sometimes I forget
that they are not the enemy.
Sometimes they forget that we enlisted
with their best interests
at heart.
Nevertheless, the sun rises each morning,
and I am hopeful.
After all, every well-placed shot deals an injury,
And I know we have disarmed
whole regiments,
these troops and I.
Together.
Once More Into the Breach
So it begins,
daily.
Early morning light slanting across the ground
illuminates yesterday's shrapnel,
the detritus of our daily struggle.
Across camp, weary officers
stand on line at the canteen,
armed with copies, checklists, and coffee.
Back on the field, I inspect
my armory and munitions.
My weapons aren't the newest.
Most of them, I bought myself.
The Department insists we should
"eliminate waste,"
fight more conservatively,
ration our meager supplies.
I don't think the windows at Headquarters
look out onto the battlefield.
It seems to me that some corners
could have been cut by
reducing
the mountain of paperwork
teetering precariously on the corner of my desk.
I sigh.
No time for that now.
A low rumble, as of thunder, announces
the approach of the horde.
Their arrival is accompanied by
shouts, stomping, slamming doors.
I steel myself to face the enemy.
My recruits stream onto the battlefield.
Undisciplined and unruly,
they grab their weapons
and take their positions, but I marvel
at how much more efficiently they fight now
than they did last fall
when their training began.
I marshal my troops every day,
arming them with
books and discussion;
together,
we fight formidable foes:
ignorance and apathy.
Some days, we lose.
Others, we stagger from the field after a disappointing stalemate.
It's fairly seldom that we end the day
with a stunning victory.
We soldier on each day,
and as troops move up the ranks,
I begin anew with more recruits.
I guess we will always be underfunded and outgunned.
Sometimes, it seems like the Department is shooting at us
more frequently than the enemy.
Many days we treat victims of friendly fire,
because some of the recruits
desert and defect,
fail to follow orders or break their position.
Sometimes I forget
that they are not the enemy.
Sometimes they forget that we enlisted
with their best interests
at heart.
Nevertheless, the sun rises each morning,
and I am hopeful.
After all, every well-placed shot deals an injury,
And I know we have disarmed
whole regiments,
these troops and I.
Together.
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