Teachers learn to live
with an unmerciful fatigue.
They care for other’s children
all day long, so deeply,
they come home depleted
and must somehow stomach it
when they catch themselves
ignoring their own.
As soon as my father
got home from school
he’d pour himself
an extra-tall screwdriver
with just enough orange juice
to color it,
he promised us
he’d only have one,
then retire to the bedroom
before dinner,
relying on his friends
Wall and Banister
to help him to bed.
First home
and first out the door,
the man in the tweed jacket
transported his leather briefcase
between the car and the bedroom,
this same man who was a
philosophy and social studies
teacher, and now a principal
who couldn’t look at his family
before or after work.
I thought teachers
like my father
were supposed to be these
cliched but invaluable rays
of light shining down
on the faces of children
and guiding them
through the turbulent waters
of growing up
while in pursuit of achievements
beyond reach,
not tortured loved ones
burnt out from serving
others so insanely
they need to drink
themselves to bed
just to feel like a solid mistake
that will forget itself,
a realization that made it
hard for me to trust
any kind of education,
which is formal for hope,
that didn’t walk its talk,
or stay up long enough for dinner
and a simple how was your day,
or pour a glass of hugs
I’d drink with a splash of
good night and I love you,
before turning out the light
and sneaking a peak
at all that family twinkling
the father I used to have
and wanted to be like
back across the night sky
between the panes
of my life’s window.
You used to sit
on the edge of the bed,
tell me how much you loved me,
and kiss me goodnight,
do you remember that?
How there wasn’t a person
who loved me more than you?
You little asshole, your stiff drink
of watching over me burning
so hard in your chest was me
burning to look up to you.
I’m the buzz you longed for.