She’s so proud of her international record.

Tokyo, London, brusseles,

She saw much more than me.

Last summer, she was in New York.

like everyone else who’se been abroad,

She got her parent’s to buy,

All kinds of cool stuff.

I can’t say she doesn’t deserve it, though.

The way she works astounds me.

Keen to do anything we tell her,

And much more on her own.

The model student.

Always smiling and happy,

I hope it will always be so.

May she shine forever.

Today we had a bit about Origami.

And of course, just reading about this,

Is cruel beyond compare.

So the kids were told to bring some color paper.

So after we finished with the boring stuff,

It came time to have some fun.

We all took out the paper squares

And tried to make something cool.

This girl brought a booklet of special folding paper.

It was printed with detailed mandalas in vivid colors.

The quality of the work was so rich.

The papers shiny and comforting to the touch,

Yet tough enough to hold minute folds.

Like a book of reproductions.

Even the smell was overwhelming!

There were also some insturctions about how to make things.

All she had to do is tear a beutiful square of paper,

And make a crane,

Or a dragon,

Or master yoda,

Or a prying mantis.

But how could you tear away a page?

It came all the way from New york,

And it is so beautiful on it’s own!

How could you possibly begin that first step,

Towards the ending, towards the running out.

Imagining this booklet ragged and half empty,

Holding on , despit the ugly , unbearable gap.

It doesn’t matter how beautiful the crane would be,

It just will never make up for the fact,

That you tore those precious pages.

The girl was flustered. So was I.

I suspect she secretely hoped,

That I would give her the order,

That this would be on my hands and concseince,

She’s sharp enough to know.

But I was in the same boat.

I was hoping that she would find the strength,

Where I was too weak.

One day , this girl will do something amazing.

Perhaps a doctor. perhaps a writer.

She has it in her to make the world better.

Will she stumble over these dilemmas again?

The moment of confusion was finally broken.

Another boy, who burns for her in secret,

Offered, gallantly to give her the choice,

Take of his best shade of paper.

She chose a navy-blue piece.

How proud I was.

Hard, rounded ,

gently ridged,

Sat the walnut shell upon my desk.

Using glue, toothpicks and paper,

It took the form of a three-master.

A sloop, a corvette, a man of war,

to brave the hostile seas.

It was easily done,

For what is a walnut shell,

If not a sailship?

Brave ship, fare thee well,

The winds guide you,

To some heaven,

Where rum drips

From coconuts,

ladies put flowers round your neck.

Go and seek the treasure,

Be not afraid of sharks,

Fear not the raging tempest.

Cry land ho, splice the mainbrace,

And cheer the mermaids .

For what is a sailboat ,

If not spice and life?

The bell rang,

The ship was set upon a desk,

Hard compressed wood, Formica.

Pens rulers, inkpad, tangerine peels.

The drawer doesn’t lock,

The tea steams sadly.

For what am I,

If not an empty walnut shell?

"I don't understand

Why you're upset."

The future of the nation

Says with his eyes.

"Why are you not satisfied?

I did everything

you've asked of me,

Sort of."

He says and looks betrayed.

"Why must you be so petty

Why are your demands

So over the top?

Isn't it enough

that I know how

To spell banana?"

He compels me.

"Look! No mistake.

So don't be so angry

Don't beat on your chest,

You Chubacca!

And if I didn't do

An exercise or four

I will pay you back,

Ratting out

the real bad apples."

He says and the shadow

Seems to grow longer

"I mean,

let's face it, Mr. Chimp:

At least I didn't copy everything."

Roy from 6b gave me a hug.

Or was it his brother,

Ted from the parallel class.

I have no hope to know for sure.

I was setting up the PPT.

He values his elevated station

As the computer-sage,

The master of the e-board.

But he hugged me, and I wonder,

Why did he do that?

Why hug a warthog, such as I?

Does he identify my hairy arms,

My globular form,

as some kind of stuffed toy?

He went to Disney,

Three Disneies actually,

The boy is a fan.

Do I remind him

Of a certain inept ursine?

Or does it go deeper;

Does he know the "F",

my axe, in cruel exams,

Will not lightly fall upon him?

Is he old enough to “play the game”?!

Had a class about recycling.

Kids enjoyed taking bottles apart,

Making masks and toys.

Leaving slivers

Of high density polyeurithane .

Too small to be salavaged,

Too small to be of use.

But big enough and sharp enough ,

To make that turtle choke on it,

When he thinks he caught a fish.

Is there anything we can do right?

Found a glue stick

In the office drawer.

When I just moved in.

Who left it there?

At what period

was it forgotten?

The glue is now hard,

Has seen better days.

Its milky , waxy constitution

Replaced by un-grated

Parmesan feel.

Who was he,

My forerunner?

Aside from

the forsaken glue

I have no sign.

No scratches on the desk,

No heart shapes,

with arrows through.

No plaques

or cries for help

No old photos

No bones.

The sandwich-board

Desk is old,

the fibers flaking

Soon it will soften more

And break.

The existence

Of the man who wielded

The glue stick, erased.

Who was he?

Is he among us,

Sitting next door over?

Why did he leave?

What did he hope for?

Will the axe that parted

Him from the glue stick

Will part me as well?

Maybe it was even

before his time:

A legacy from

a primordial teacher

Who is even further

Down the road...

She couldn’t close her eyes

Couldn’t allow that to happen.

Time passes so slowly

Eyes burning, feeling like

The parched surface of the desert.

But she could not lose

This match of minds and will

And pain.

The stakes were so high.

She felt how a tear was forming

But it could not,in of itslef,

Reach and smother the flame.

He looked intentionally cool,

A master of this game,

Not even an allowed twitch,

To be hurriedly restrained.

Was he made of stone?

Could he not feel?

She read somwhere,

That snakes have a dry

Translucent sheath,

Oh, to be a reptile.

She went through her training:

Distraction is the key.

She made careful stock,

Of all her stamps,

Even where they were placed

Carefully, in the album.

She kept it up,

Until, at last, the creep

Blinked.

Bring it on if you dare, but

No one beats the sand Queen!

After the vultures left,

Carrying with them

the remainder of the day

And the blood, mine.

After that, I carried

What was left of my soul

To make use of

the complimentary

Coupons,

which we whored

ourselves for.

The long isles

of useless waste,

Of wrapping and packaging

Was ours to pick through.

Bargains to excite.

Material components

To replace the vacuum

that I feel within.

I got some coffee,

Exceeding my mandate

Struggling with the math.

The cashier did not hesitate,

nor did she seem confused.

She's been through this before:

Short-end bonuses

To dead-end people.

The praying mantis

Dragged what was left

Onward.

Stripped of wings,

Grasping arms,

and two legs short,

It kept going

In a noticeable direction.

The antennas

moving, sensing

Desperately searching

For the little monsters

who tore it apart.

Where is it going?

What part

of the instinctual

Skill set will guide

him today?

Is he dragging himself,

Searching for a quiet place

Where a predator

Will do the decent thing,

And put a quick end to this?

The kids are having fun, though

Their instincts are,

of starting out with small,

unambitious projects

Then moving on

To bigger game.

Wondering if later

they will take the next step

And dare each other

to eat the remains.