Image by Jac Rye

Sometimes I look from the classroom
to the low grey building by the car park
and remember I have photocopying
to do so run down then run back
before the class starts. Last week
I got locked in the copier room.

I rang security but no one answered.
I could see the students gathering
for the last class of the day in the room
on the first floor. I banged the glass.
They waited for half an hour then left.
I couldn’t get an outside line on the phone.

I slept on a couple of bin bags stuffed
with shredded paper. In the morning
I checked the door, still locked.
One of my colleagues walked past
carrying a clipboard. It was the day
of my assessment. I banged the glass.

I’m sure he heard me, his waxy lips
trembled slightly. The students arrived.
I could see him asking questions then
tapping on his laptop. After half an hour
the classroom was empty. The door
had been silently unlocked.


Paul Bavister works as a gardener and also teaches Creative Writing. He has published three collections of poetry with Two Rivers Press, the most recent being The Prawn Season.

Back To Issue #37

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