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 You, the senior English class today, in September of 2020 are the rumble of a dumptruck starting up.

That sound is the sensation of a building growl my throat. 

I'm supposed to sing the song of tomorrow, 

    of the promise of college, 

                but there is a growl in the way as I tumble. 

Instead of a teacher, a cement mixer,

I am a stone in the metal bin of a rock tumbler, 

 grumbling around, hoping I will come out polished and shiny with all the answers for them. 

Someday I'll have every detail for you laid out perfectly

                                       a cloth with bedizened items well-lit, displayed 

and you'll simply pluck all you need from the pile. 

"tada! this one's me." 

but for now, you will arise from the confusion to discern your own Bob Ross "Happy Accidents" from the lessons I lob your way. 

Sometimes my lessons are sandbags tossed, sliding, "whomp" into a corhole game

No points or rips or spills.

You, this class, endure

plod forward, in spite of all interference.

Whomp

Amid a pandemic,  

sun still shines 

Swish

even as I feel the screetch of brakes in my teeth from the lurching work trucks circling 

there are grand dreams

warming before me.

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