and students and parents are restless;

I walk the littered halls,

overwhelmed: kids bent on cell phones shuffling

along; teachers checked

out in their classrooms behind

closed doors where

anything can happen.  I lose it

with my own classes: screaming at them like

I did at my daughter when she threw

tantrums at two, feet stamping, small fists pounding against

whatever might come; but now I am the one

throwing things on the floor: whiteboard markers, ball-point pens,

whatever chalk I have left

to get through what remains

of the year.  I stomp my feet and return

to my corner, buried in papers, gearing up

for the next round.