The Ocean Floor

Empty crystal spheres peering into a world 

that tramples above the ocean she drowns in.

Legs of giants swinging purposefully around her

in a whirl of movement she does not belong to.

Anchored to the cracks in the pavement 

and her shopping cart of treasure once buried. 

Instead of swimming to the surface

her words sink below the subway lines. 

A fish out of water but not yet on land

the streets are a house without being a home. 

As if every Starbucks cup is a dagger

because her’s is used for collecting change.

As the humans walk by and pretend not to see

because God forbid their consciences should soil.

While she knows they can’t give her all she needs

she needs them all to give. 

Though she’s swimming upstream 

against a tide of slacks and heels.

She’ll always have the fins that make her a fish

albeit in an ocean too salty. 

And only because the guilt was too much 

and those empty crystal spheres seemed more to me 

like an oracle’s crystal ball

did I give her my bottle of water.

When she looked up and said “thank you”  

I finally realized that her crystal spheres were the clearest I have ever seen.

Glistening to the other end of the ocean. 

I Tried...

I worked all year just to get them to listen. 

Fifteen 14 year old girls itching for a weekend. 

One idealistic 20 year old. 

I memorized their names. 

I bought them donuts. 

I told them stories. 

I dressed cool.

I texted them.

I prepared. 

I taught. 

Well, I tried. 

Friday at 11:30 did suit their attention spans. 

I tried to make them think. 

To have goals and aspirations. 

Self esteem and healthy friendships. 

I tried.

I laughed. 

I sang. 

I played videos. 

I pretended I didn’t care when they “went to the bathroom” knowing they would never return. 

It was fine to try to find your little brother who must need you now. 

And it was even fine to work on something for another teacher. 

I tried. 

And on the last day when I tried so hard to be serious and make you be serious as well, I made you sit down and write a thank you letter. 

There must have been someone, just one person who did something for you over your eight year stint in this supposed educational institution. 

Someone who contributed to your blossoming, sponge-like teen minds. 

I tried to help you focus.

No, you don’t actually need to give it to them. 

Yes, I can be the messenger. 

I just want you to reflect. 

No, it can’t be to an object. 

Yes, it can be to your mom.

Emma:

Thank you for writing to the first-time teacher who tried.