Nine months of sabbatical
I meet them in the airport lobby
of the newborn nursery.
Twelfth floor above the city
I enter their bassinet offices
and interrupt their naps with my questions
Their warm vacation
with muffled Mozart
is over. I inform them
as I break into their swaddle
that they cannot swim
every day anymore.
It’s time to get to work,
they are not ready.
They arch soft bellies
into my unlearned hands
and begrudge a lesson to
me and parents
Soft cheese morning sun
is grated through the nursery blinds.
Offending to their crusty eyes,
it sputters the complexity
inside their balding heads.
They now have tenure on life,
and as TA it falls to me
to translate their bitter rage
and soothe indignant cries.
Convincing the student —
parents of human genius.