This is all a true story.
I turned around from the board and smiled. ”So let’s try doing a sonnet together.”
They groaned, squirming in their chairs.
“What should we write about?”
A woman in the front row in a turquoise dress perked up. ”Butterflies!”
My lips twitched as I eyed her yellow purse covered in purple butterflies. “Ok. So how should we start?”
“I don’t want to talk about butterflies.” Another woman pouted.
“Can we do freestyle?” A man whined.
“What’s assonance again?” A woman peered up at me through huge bug-eyed glasses.
“I want to write a poem about boxing.” An older man grumbled in the third row.
“So a sonnet about boxing?” I suggested.
“Crimson like the tide of war!” the older man bellowed. ”Blood spewing from fists!”
“The butterfly floated on the breeze,” Turquoise dress cooed.
“I hate getting old!” the second woman screeched.
“I hate freestyle!” the third woman glared back at her. ”Sonnets have structure!”
“Your face has structure!” the second woman hissed.
“Butterflies are so pretty,” Turquoise dress cooed.
“Boxing butterflies!” the man in the back bellowed. ”That fight caterpillars!”
“Or centipedes!” the other man added.
Setting down my marker, I swallowed my giggles. ”Who wants a five minute break?”
Feet thundered toward the door and down the hall. I plopped down at the desk, my hands buried in my hair.
I glanced up. The woman at the turquoise dress looked at me hopefully.
“Can we write a poem about butterflies?”
I glanced around the empty room. Then I picked up the marker and smiled.
“Sure. We’ll write a poem about butterflies.”
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