Karen

In the 90’s, there was a taste for it,

An almost overgrown zeal she took

To whacking away like weeds:

Her love of teaching.

She reasoned its roots lost water

And shriveled because she was an old

Maid now–thirty-five–but that couldn’t

Be it. By the looks of things on her TV,

Thirty-five was the new twenty.

It was more of a shift that didn’t even

Start within her own heart. It was outward

And everywhere and the way the new janitor

Slid his eyes over his neatly trimmed

Nails when she confirmed her name

Was Karen. Apparently, she had become

A nomenclatural pariah without even

Becoming aware of it.

All day long she taught children who looked

More at their screens than her face. That wasn’t

Education, but the complaint was a faded tune

In her principal’s ears. Education now consisted

Of a laborious list of all the things she intended to do

But couldn’t quite pull off.

Like when she wanted to teach A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

And the collective gasp in her teacher’s meeting

Seemed like a response to her wanting to light the children on fire.

Too racist, too many curse words (although she was sure

Some of her kids ate those for breakfast), too...real.

That night Karen went home, took a long bubble

Bath and remembered something she hadn’t deemed

Worth remembering for a long time.

There she’d been, young and alone in her room–

The best combination–long wooden ruler in hand,

Teaching the doll she’d named after herself,

Instructing her on the ways of the world

She’d one day cease to know.