Dear Mr. Vernon,
The real Mr. Vernon. The sad statement, stranded behind
the lab table caricatures. That decaf stained, glass-paned bachelor's
pad is no home at all. Living inside a wrinkle in time.
Wearing your suit like your students sheets,
torn from the top at the morning bell, dressed in a bunching scrawl.
Badly ragged, the classic 'sad bespoke.' Metallic tone dulled & tempered.
Living outside those margins, red doodles in a yellowing memo book.
An empty masters- the room you left, and maybe wake up from...
& return to, day in, day out, a daydream that has lost its appeal,
and wear on your fourth wall, like a purple heart. You wouldn't know.
You gaze at the ceiling, happily in the dark if only for a few moments.
If only, for your entire life, every period marked by a rude awakening.
I see now, our generation of rebels that set out to be unlike
any of those that came before, accept that laziness
is what makes us uncrumple those balled up sheets
in solemn defeat, and pour over old notes in hopes of the answers.
Though you haven't taught a day in your life, Mr. Vernon,
you never told us (like the others) that "teaching is a noble pursuit"
yet we were convinced you were bent on
making our lives a living hell.
I have since learned otherwise & want to thank you
for the education.
Sincerely,
no-one, in particular
