Dissent

I don't like slouching in a pencil marked desk, Or being taught lessons from textbooks dated 1983, The sight of a woman who had these books when they were new Percolates ideas of career failure, And her passion, Squished by the thumbs of Thirty years of children, Is now as worn as the floors I walk on, No longer can the crackle of life in her voice be heard, Or perhaps, It wasn't there at all.