Moisture Corrosion

It happens.
Much more often,
Than most people realize.
Teachers cry.
They are supposed,
To be so stoic.
Absorb the abuse.
Assimilate it. Condense it.
Until it reaches,
The saturation point.
Then it happens.
Precipitation.
Usually far from,
Students’ eyes.
In the privacy,
Of one’s home.
With the comfort,
Of a glass of wine.
They cry. They say,
I can’t do this anymore.
But they can and they do.
Though, sometimes,
It happens,
In front of them.
Right in the middle,
Of a lesson.
Filling the classroom,
With the awkwardness,
Of emotion.
The interruption of routine.
Students squirm in their seats.
Unsure what to do.
Uncomfortable with the idea,
That their teacher,
Is a human being.
Not a malfunctioning,
Emotionless android,
Corroded by moisture.
They don’t show it,
All that often.
Their humanity.
But it happens.
Teachers cry.

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