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Third

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I see the third hour
language arts class
scattered about the playground.

Trying to fill their paper
with what they see.

Surrounded by the sun,
their pen to paper.

Soaked by
the rays.

Shirts turning
hot.

The mere idea of sweat
forming on their skin.

Hair growing warm.

Children ringing
in their ears.

The drone of the teacher,
telling us what to write.

How to notice things.

The stinging stench of sweat.

Grass and leaves burning,
illegally.

Only to be brought back inside to a finished day of meaningless learning.



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