Teachers eat at Subway.
Sitting silent, but noticing everything, looking out the window, knowing exactly where to look, and where not to, waiting. Waiting for the nectar to secrete from the family ahead of me, and the mom gives me a smile, as I throw my tray away, and the sun wanes ever more slowly.
Teachers work in grocery stores, when they can’t be teachers, because those others, them, they don’t get it anyway. They’re the ones who will complain that teachers don’t get paid enough, and then build a hundred-billion dollar stadium, when we never even brought up the issue in the first place, we were too busy examining the underdog pertinacity in Gertrude Stein’s fiction, or researching the sociology of Frida Kahlo’s birthplace, in our dimly lit 450 sq. ft. apartment. Never in a million years would we work in an office, planning a vacation to Cancun, never in a million years would we live like them, distanced from the deformity of the crowds, cut-off, amputated from the trickling vibrations of the stomping masses. This is our world, this is the only place for us, the underdog, unique, but knowing that we’d better get some enjoyment out of grading papers or essays, or it’s surely gonna be a long day.