Adjunct Blues
My dinged-up Honda sputters
to the next school, next class –
Freshman Comp 101, where students in sweats
yawn away my 8 a.m. lecture and the new recruit quarterback
slouches at his seat, texts while his girlfriend slides
her heels up his legs, tap, tap, tapping her pencil all class.
My dinged-up Honda sputters
to the next school, next office,
where the copier beeps and jams and I imagine
yanking out its wired guts, spilling coffee on its circuits,
clapping as it smokes and steams.
My dinged-up Honda sputters
to the next school, next community clinic
for a free flu shot and medicine to ease
my chronic cough. The secretary eyes my ironed
thrift store suit and tie, says, You sure
you need this service?
My dinged-up Honda sputters
to the next school, next class,
where I ghost through hallways, a blur
to full-time faculty. This time I leave
all lights on after 10 p.m., go home to red-ink
my last stack of exams.