Another Monday Comes

I

Another Monday comes

And sleep is interrupted

by that screaming phone

near my bed.

II.

I pick it up,

only to be greeted,

by the voice of a computer I dread:

"HELLO, THIS IS THE SUBSTITUTE FINDER!"

It says in that harsh, commanding lead,

"YOU ARE SUBSTITUTING FOR..."

III.

And, out of bed I go!

On a another Monday morning

for a job on

this day.

IV.

Happy to work?

Sure

Happy for that task?

Not really.

It’s a grind

day-by-day

and never in charge.

Only controlled

by an automated voice.

V.

Another Monday comes.

I'm off again,

on another Monday ride

down Wilmington to Alondra,

pass the meat markets

and soul food joints,

to Compton Avenue,

where the men on the streets

stare at me, wondering,

what kind of fool comes here?

VI.

It's Monday Funday for little tikes.

"Substitute man! Who are you subbing for?"

"Substitute! We have a Substitute!"

The triumphant words of freedom ring.

Which means that another bottle of aspirin

will slip from under my sleeves.

VII.

The Monday morning bell rings

and they pack'em in.

Every seat is taken.

"Yeah" I hear, under their breaths from

cherry red and Snow White smiles.

"Yeah, we have a sub!"

(Those words I still dread).

Little girl, roses in her hair.

"Como estas, Maestro." squeaks from her lips.

"MAESTRO! MAESTRO! MAESTRO!"

Many small voices cry.

They think I speak their tongue

Just another Monday rite.

VIII

Papers and books strewn on the desk top.

Somewhere around there, I'll find that lesson plan book.

Or make up a plan,

to start the Monday right.

IX.

It's a balmy inner city Monday.

But I can't crack the window.

Bars prevent me.

I can't see them.

Taggers signs blotch the scene

in black, green, red and gold.

X.

The color of Monday arrives.

In a language I can barely contrive.

"Habla Espanol?"

Sorry little guy. Un pequeno.

Little chica wants the baños.

And soon a little chico.

"Baños ?"

No baños, Amigo.

XI.

And Monday scurries on.

Like a broken wheel and cog.

Checks by names on the scratched, green surface

of the chalkboard

means I have to be the man

The day goes by,

reading and writing and arithmetic.

Some minds opened, little eyes sparkled.

But some still played.

Recess bell rings,

and the naughty ones have to stay

while the rest go out and play.

They seem to forget the golden rule:

Don't play the man on this fine Monday.

XII.

Then the last bell rings

and they bolt out that door.

Chairs up. Paper in the can.

Damn! I forgot to give the homework plan.

XII.

I follow them to the bus stop.

Watch the crosswalk.

Lowriding Nissans and Chevys drive by.

Bass booming, chrome wheels rolling.

Ghetto tunes in full effect.

The homies inside,

flashing that ever present tattooed grin

upon seeing the future of the gangsta crew.

Who will follow, who will die?

It's hard to say, with these kids of today.

XIII.

Education means do or die.

And dying is not a life.

It's just the inner city blues

playing another sour Monday tune.

XIV.

And another Monday ends.

Get out as soon as possible

back to the 'burbs

While another Monday ends

And night fast approaches.

Tomorrow is a new day.

But I’ll have to wait

for the morning’s Robotic Voice

to tell me

when and where

my Tuesday

will be.