Before the prompt is out, sigh, The pencils are already moving, why? Their ears are closed, goodbye, as minds feverishly try to rhyme. Heads are bent over papers, be kind, maybe they heard me (in my mind).   I will teach them to write. I…

  Our Miss Brooks goes home at night, Where the rooms are empty, The chairs are silent, There never were any of her own children, and the Work is never done. Papers to grade of course and Dinner to drink. A page of curricular notes…