click off the light switch
click on the 16mm projector
rattle the silent black-and-white film
hold that frame still when I fail
to cross the line with everyone else
walking through Thistletown
>
in need of special treatment
given private tutorials
made to feel as if I have power
to destroy the obedient and confident
if I don't cross the line sooner
verbal knives slash hard in Thistletown
>
student teacher can achieve only so much
until public humiliation takes over:
holler at me, shame me,
send me to study hall,
glue me to a bench
it's character building
it's attitude changing
it's all on you, son,
you keep saying--
instead, my border wall grows taller
>
but I keep quiet, try to move proper
pick up my feet, point my toes
eight steps for every five yards
count the days, months, years
before I can leave Thistletown
and learn how to walk
without looking to my left and right
to cross the line perfectly
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