I lug them home, I lug them back…
There is sits: my book bag,
Filled to the brim
With two giant notebooks;
Each notebook stuffed
Till it’s spine is sprung
With papers.
Some are hopeful pictures
Where the young artist
Has drawn with heart and soul;
Some are honest efforts
To please their teacher,
Seeking the sunshine of praise.
Some show promise
Of future skill,
Some are breath-taking,
Some will break your heart.
Then there are the ones
Carelessly flung
Onto the page.
Uncaring of result,
Just filling up the hour
Because they can’t be
In PE or band or study hall–
Or anywhere besides school
At all, at all.
There is sits: waiting
For my pronouncement.
With a sigh
For all the things
I would rather do,
I get out my favorite pen,
Boot up the old grade-book program,
And hope the marks I give
Are only grades–
Not the determination
Of someone’s fate.
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