The Tutor

Not so deep

inside his psyche

exists the  

frightened little man;

defences up

he walls him in;

ego inflated.

Square, angular

'Chiselled from some

metamorphic rock'

(he muses)

jaw juts forward;

he gives emphasis

to every uttered word,

each morsel offered

as a tasty crumb

of wisdom

to be shared

vainglorious.

His students wait,

impatient

as he pauses yet again,

sits,

adopts his Rodin pose,

his thinking stance,

scratches

at his salt and pepper head,

dandruff flakes extracted,

he rolls twixt thumb and finger,

creates tiny oily balls,

flicks into waiting pocket

lest they contain

some random thought,

some stroke of genius

leached out,

secreted accidentally.

Class done,

'Young minds broadened'

(he muses)

he wanders

head bowed, shoulders slouched

as if carrying the burden

of his intellect

(self-perceived),

hands firmly clasped

behind waiting back,

through corridor and cloister.

The young ones,

see through his affect,

his pseudo-intellect

and titter ignominiously. 

He flinches,

hurt

and not so deep inside

his psyche

exists the

frightened little man,

defences down,
wall tumbled,

ego deflated.

Anna :o]

(Please note that the above is not an attack on the teaching profession only memories of one particular tutor!)

Thanks to the good folk at Open Link Night ~ Week 33 (hosted and posted by Hedgewitch) at dVerse Poets Pub.