Parent Teacher Interview

I estimate,
from my seat at the back of the hall,
skin turning the colour of boiled celery,
cobwebs collecting around my pen,
poised for an hour, now,
to record your grievances,
deprived of light, of air,
like an ugly plant determined to grow uglier,
hope steaming gently at the entrance,
but there are no cups left, no spoons,
no strength to rise,
to ascend the ranks of the wanted -
mathematics, science, English -
heads bowed earnestly over
percentages, bar charts, corrected clauses;

I estimate,
from my seat at the back of the hall,
in the shadows,
skulking, like a hungry stray,
in front of the toilet doors,
next to an abandoned mop bucket -
no mop, just the bucket, as if stealing one would be pointless -
fear still more powerful than starvation,
the last of my petals see-sawing to the floor,
that perhaps half of the parents,
a third of the teachers
are still wearing their sunglasses
in their hair.