Sisyphus Back Teaching Middle School Art

Gray clouds flap restless over the dome.
Dawn seeps in through long, thin rents,
swipe of cat's claw. Look how

I am walking on wind, stepping invisible
stairs, ones furure generations will build.
The miles I travel, I tread with my voice,

each step a word hurled into storm gales,
battered phrases blown back in my face.
steep uphill climbing, especially

with this bundle of snarling youth. They poke
and nip each other in the dim light inside the bag.
Rail bitterly about each other's farts and elbows.

I am, most ridiculously, hauling them
up this slope, foolishly imagining
the view from the top will dazzle them.