Raison d’etre

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 Raison d’etre 


Mustard yellow rubber squeaks

slimy against the sole of my foot.


“I forgot my tennis shoes.”

“We can make these work.”


Sticky fingers, not mine,  clack clack across keyboard under the hallway’s yellowish sheen.


“Did you know your cooperating teacher left us?”

“Does he know I quit?”


Steaming lumps of meat, beans, cheese

rest comfortably on my fresh cornbread.


“Kids, you can eat in the car.

We’ve got to make it to trampoline class.”

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