For seven minutes:
The sky gushes, weeps, expostulates beyond the square of window, and the shade of awning.
One free space in my life between homework - and homework...
A crisp emotionless voice decreeing an earthquake
For seven minutes I can write and apologise for the fact that I have attempted to superwomanize myself - and failed miserably.
I can express my extreme impatience toward my class, and my tolerance (?) of their imperfections.
I remember, with distaste, the syndrome of randomness, which many of them have contracted, to a severe degree. Momentary mind blanks last only for five seconds, before they are dully broken by the question, "Why is it so quiet?"
Seven minutes are gone, and doubled.
And is that a poem?
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