Before the white boards
You donít forget a covalent bond
when pupils dress like molecules,
tectonic plates are easy to grasp
when desks slide into continents,
But Billy Bentham
had a pub lunch
and came back with greasy lips,
ready to burst and beat the shit
out of any would-be noise maker,
rule breaker, I wasn't a chance taker.
So I sat and watched
the playing field crows
meeting at the murder.
Dodging the borrowed shorts brigade
skulking off for a bike shed smoke,
with pale legs and black plimsolls,
a flat footed 1500 meter cough.
Others went to Malham cove
so they could recall a limestone pavement,
categorise real rock samples,
too precious to throw away
like the memories they still keep,
nearly thirty years later.
But Billy Bentham had a bulbous nose,
riddled with tiny red veins,
each one swimming in whiskey,
the fumes were monotone
that killed inflection,
dictated daily from a syllabus bed time book.
He was easily mistook
for a teacher.