Teachers' Lounge
Jan 26 2024
The closed door
kept us out
but couldn't keep in the laughter
smell of bad coffee
and cigarette smoke
that made us wonder what went on in there.
The teachers' lounge,
where they retreated
during spares and breaks
and before the bell.
They had no first names.
We knew them only as Miss, or Mr.;
the women
who were surely spinsters
disappointed in love,
and the men
who must have settled for teaching
when their ambitions failed.
Who favoured bad sports jackets
or lumpy suits,
while the women dressed better
but still would have never
turned your head.
And when class ended
and they drove away
we couldn’t imagine where.
But in that privileged space
they were somehow transformed
into real people
even glamorous ones.
So what was it like in there?
Perhaps a gentleman's club
with port and cigars,
tiki lounge
leather bar?
Or just fancier
than the rest of the school,
with wall-to-wall carpeting
upholstered chairs?
Did they gossip, bitch
blacklist the mouthy kids?
Smirk at dirty jokes?
Hit on the hot young teacher?
Or just mark papers,
call home,
eat brown bag lunches
that were as boring as ours?
When I peeked in one day
all I saw were some saggy couches
with wonky legs,
soiled microwave,
and drip coffee-maker
with a badly stained carafe
burnt brown on the bottom.
The lounge looked bleak
in the thin winter light
of a drizzly day.
A grey-haired man
snoozed loudly.
A zaftig blonde
with bad roots
was filing her nails.
And my math teacher was on his knees,
mopping up the coffee he'd spilled
when he failed to carry
and missed a step.
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