My shoulders are pinched, uptight: not a finger pinch, something with more pressure per square inch, something like a vice or a blunt hammered nail.
Over the day it distends from scrunch to pain.
I drive to work and I think: I won't manage this.
Only when I get there and set the roof mounted heaters going in a sorry attempt to warm the floor, and I'm lugging kick pads, and my flask of coffee sits on a chair, even before my students arrive, thought has nothing to do with it, this is a burst of spirit: All the world's a stage.
Across the cold wood I tread, bold, sure of my character.
|Circa 2011: didn't have my camera at work today. Sorry about my fangy teeth.|