Home is where I have sex with my wife.
Soil is where dirty things live. Don’t eat anything that you find on the soil.
Rain is what farmers like, but nobody else likes it that much.
My home is my classroom.
My soil–the soft, fertile brains of students.
Rain is the sound of my voice watering their brains.
This poem is not about a secret fantasy of having sex with my wife in my classroom,
or how I visualize spraying dirty student brains with the purifying sound of my voice:
Poetry is where I have sex with my wife.
Poetry is where my dirty things live.
Poetry is what teachers like, but nobody else likes it that much.