J.P. Celia

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English Teacher

“Let’s salute our teachers with a deeper
understanding of what ‘education’ means.”
—UTnews

Wake up tired. Take a shower.
Pray you’re fired. Curse the hour.
Give a slideshow on dead writers.
Write a memo. Seize some lighters.
Eat a sammy. Give detention.
Feel all clammy at the mention
Of your contract. Yell at juniors
Who have hijacked (with their rumors)
Classroom order. Teach semantics.
Just ignore her in the spandex.
Break a pencil. Hug depressives.
Don’t say “menstrual.” Teach possessives.
Talk with workmates while you’re pissing;
Get some updates on who’s kissing.
Pack your folders. Find your Honda.
Rub your shoulders. Buy lasagna.
Turn your house key. Do some grading.
Down some whiskey. Life’s amazing.

Her Husband

He wasn’t tall. He wasn’t short.
He worked a lot. He played a sport
To keep his body quasi-fit.
He smoked. He drank. He tried to quit.
He’d read some classics, was informed,
Though not enough to be transformed
By excesses of truth or thought.
He combed his hair to hide a spot.
His dress was “banker” mixed with “dunce.”
He could be mean; he’d shoved her once.
He did the dishes twice a week.
In bed, he had “OK” technique,
Which was sufficient to abate
Her cheating to a modest rate.

J.P. Celia‘s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in such places as RattleBarrow StreetAble Muse, and The Raintown ReviewHe lives in Gainesville, Florida.