The Secret Life of Teachers

Who knows?  Not me. 


When the dining hall is silent                                                                                                        and the spoons are in their drawers
when the cockroaches and beetles
scuttle over empty floors,
when the playground’s full of shadows
and the mice and bats come out,
when the spiders in the cupboards
stretch their legs and swing about,
When the moon is high and lonely
and the world is locked up tight
I lie awake and wonder

what do teachers do at night?

Do they dress up as mermaids and sailors
and go dancing in underground bars?
Do they sit in a den playing poker,
strumming genuine Spanish guitars?
Do they hang upside down like Batman
or run in their pants through the streets?
Do they cuddle their dollies and teddies?
Or hide under their beds, eating sweets?

Do they saddle up wild prairie horses
and gallop through thundering storms?
Do they swim in a river of peppermint tea
or kiss upon camomile lawns?
Do they take the fast train to Morocco?
Or ride on the night bus alone?
Can they make themselves totally invisible
and hide, like a ghost, in your home?

When the corridors are quiet
and the gym is out of breath,
When my head is full of awful things
like snakes and cheese and death,
When I’m all alone upstairs
and every sound gives me a fright
I lie awake and wonder








About sophiewellstood

Writer of long and short stories, poems and songs. Some of my fiction is traditionally published and in bookshops. I've put some daft poems for younger people / lapsed adults here, as well as some proper swearing, which I enjoy doing a lot.
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