Let’s line a room with cinder blocks, 
paint them something cheerful 
and hang up prints of Sicily. Then add:
oh. Fluorescent lighting. I wouldn’t notice 
but the students act as if they were being pressed 
to death. As if the rest of their lives were cheery 
and full of volunteer work and perfect omelettes. 
The baby cries her really pissed-off cry, 
as if her beachfront property just slid into the sea.
When we speak to infants, we don’t use words 
like hemoglobin, even when the context begs 
for it. Also no juggernaut, no etcetera. 
$40.01 at the gas pump instead of an even $40. 
My niece is sure the world has its thumb 
on her scale. Who hasn’t had students 
weep in their office for being 19? 
We say “there there,” implying 
there might be a better place to cry. 
Strangers perfect in their strangeness warn: 
my toddlers will turn into teenagers. 
My mother-in-law tells me about Indiana 
raindrops as if she had bets placed on them. 
As if she could change what’s blowing our way. 
If you cut enough words, it’s just a classroom 
of us with nothing more to say, but oh,
how I like to wave that red pen around. 

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