Intellect doomed me
to be an indoor person,
pacing in front of classrooms,
encouraging thought beyond
what appears on the page.
This is my stage, my loading dock,
my spot on the academic assembly line,
the place where I share my passions
whenever the curriculum allows.
It is the meeting place for
disparate generations,
old school and new,
taking shots across the bows,
then texting back replies.
Waning attention spans
focus on grade point averages
that someone somewhere
convinced them can be negotiated.
I dissuade them of that notion,
instead encouraging improvement
of skills by which to earn
credits enough to avoid
that slippery slope
of complaint and confusion.
This is the age of enabled winners,
coddled and boosted up
to dizzying heights, and I am
the town crier, announcing
the harsh reality in red pen
late at night over essays
that invite analysis
beyond formulaic response.
This is no world for the weak,
but effort goes a long way
toward sharpening
that serpent’s tooth
into an eventual appreciation
of why literature matters
and a someday gratitude
for all this indoor effort.

© by Gary Glauber.
Used with the author’s permission.