my fearful mind wandering,
I’ll wear it –
long locks confined in a hair net,
I’ll toast those buns –
rise early, clock in with the sun,
I’ll make those Frostys cold –
mop the back and smile when I’m told,
Just please, I’m begging you,
don’t make me teach another class over Zoom.
The fall looks bleak;
I stand on a precipice, worn out and weak,
And now, I wonder, what will they give?
A rope, some planks, for a virus-free bridge?
Or will they just hand us a new three-piece suit,
wireless router, Google Classroom, and an old parachute?