The Substitute

These kids aren’t mine,

not like the hundreds preceding them

in the years before I retired,

gave up my classroom, but not my love;

their noise, their lives still fill my ears.

Now, I’m just a name, another substitute filling in

for a teacher away from his class,

sick or conferring someplace else.

While they might recognize me from around town

or another time covering some other teacher gone,

and while I might know their faces

if not their names, they still aren’t mine.

We’ve built no working relationships, no bonds of trust;

I’m only an outsider intruding on the routines

of their day, this life they share with each other,

but not with me. So I take attendance, pass out

worksheets and handouts, busy work,

assignments due, a quiz or, worse, a test,

and then just maintain some semblance of order

while they work, or not work, talking softly,

distracted by each other, by my being there.

I could teach them, if they’d ask me something,

show them a world beyond here, beyond school

if they’d listen, if they’d talk to me,

respond in some way, but they don’t;

I’m merely a substitute, an inadequate replacement

for the day, a stranger keeping watch.