The Low School That Was High School by John Grey

There was the teacher who
constantly scratched his pendulous chin
and the other who taught
the rigid
rules of math
with the vagaries of a facial twitch.
Also, there was the thin spectacled woman,
hair cloistered in a bun,
who never married
but assured us that Henry VIII
did this evil thing six times.
Some were better than others
at jamming knowledge
in our mushy minds,
but no mentors,
no inspirations,
No English teacher took me aside;
pooh-poohed the assigned novel,
shoved Thoreau into my hand,
said, "Read this instead."
No science instructor's eyes lit up
when he pronounced the magic "Tesla."
Their monotone voices,
bored looks,
came with the curriculum.
Maybe they were just
the predictable products
of their own debilitating education.
Lackluster in, dreary out,
as they say.
Today, I don't write because
some teacher leaned over my shoulder,
scanned my work,
said, "That shows promise."
I was graded, not encouraged,
My teachers are filed under
"despite their muted efforts."
For all that,
I never missed a class.
Teachers tried to impart knowledge
but mostly, they were that knowledge.