Being the Teacher

Mornings seem empty, I think
as the coffee in the cup, the surface
vibrates…absorbing the sound of
nothing; me. This room.
In my mind I reach out with stretched hand, with
fingers extended pointing stiff trying to
bring back that which
is gone.
I am sorry sometimes…most times, all times…when I
think that I taught you
to cry…and
I’ve never wanted to be that teacher, just wanted
to be taught, but
I can’t get away from me, the
gravity of myself; the weight of
thoughts ideas dreams feelings vague notions…all piled on
top of my life. And
I know I am not smart enough to see
where anyone else
can fit on that cart. I think
sometimes…most times (all times) that
the coffee cup is better than me, better
when it absorbs sound
translates frequency into
movement motion ripples across its flat
surface. Something
I can’t seem to do and I think that
being the teacher
is something none of us
can avoid…if,
we ever want to
be taught.

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