I am a high school teacher.
English.
I have charge of boys
I once was afraid would kick my ass.

I wield disciplinary forms now,
but periodically I’m reminded
of a power they still hold over me.

Walking to the copy room,
I sometimes catch the sweet smell
of saw-split wood—the scent
of failure—in the hall…

1989. Mr. Johnson. Shop.
Me with long hair
and Ragstock slacks,
secondhand button-up shirt,
black vest, bolo tie,
kung fu slippers
and argyle socks,
trying too hard to be Bono
or Alex P. Keaton
or Robert Smith.
Me, surrounded by burly boys,
seemingly as simple as their tools.
In Levis, AC/DC T-shirts
and work boots, they rip, plane
and pound wood into
beautiful forms.

Locker room language,
the dusty chaw
of industrial arts machinery,
the rattle and hum,
all lull me into a daze.

I stare…

my curio cabinet,
more glass than wood—
a gift for my mother—stands
unfinished.