So, I'm in this class. "Curriculum and Teaching I". I'm not really sure what goes on in this class except that the teacher just kind of meanders through our reading assignments with an unclear mental thread. Needless to say I have some flippin' sweet doodles in my notebook thus far. But, before my professor begins her hour and a half "lecture" (if you can even call it that) we do an hour of free writing. Scoreee. It's supposed to help us learn to write like teachers of writing. But I'm just going to take what I can get and be glad to have some structured time for putting words to paper; writing is my favorite.
Anyhoo, this week we read the poem "Power" about some kids who plant a dummy on some train tracks to try and get the train to stop. Long story short, the train runs over the dummy, train driver freaks out (thinking that he had just hit a kid) and everybody loses. From this we are instructed to: "write a poem that is a remembered scene when things didn't turn out as expected and the voice of the poem is one of someone who wasn't ready for what happened."
First we hear about the death of one girl's grandfather, then the loss of innocence of a girl exposed to a PCB spring break far too young, and then I whip out this number. Enjoy.
Snap. Crackle. Pop.
Snap. Crackle. Pop.
White foam crests over the top of my bubbling Rice Krispies.
Ears gobble up the soft chatter as the mouth waters with anticipation
of the sweet crunch and sugary milk.
"Darling, come here just a minute" interrupts my cereal's song.
Eyes steal a wistful glance at my bowl.
Food isn't allowed in the living room,
not since the red stain on the white carpet.
Whoops.
I scamper into the next room.
Charlie Brown's teacher tells me something important
"Wah wah wah wah wah wah wah wah"
Her voice drones on as I think of the crisp, crunchy delight
waiting for me in the next room.
How I long to hear the chorus whisper,
"Snap. Crackle. Pop." into my hungry ear.
"Alright then?" broke my reverie.
"Yes, yes, alright. Am I excused?"
"Go on."
The words have barely escaped her lips before I am back in the kitchen.
Leaning close, I crane my ear.
The bowl is silent.
Scooping a large spoonful toward my mouth
the anticipation of that airy, crunch filling my my stomach with delight
almost too much to contain.
Splat.
Soggy, mush falls flat on my tongue.
Tears leap to my eyes.
No snap. No crackle. No pop.
Someday my teachers are going to stop calling me "clever" and start calling me "smart a$$", but hopefully not any time soon.
