They say, One man's trash is another man's treasure.

Ahem. Serena begins. Buenas tardes.
She presents a poster about Honduran kids
walking awkwardly about in heaps of trash, searching for food.
She ends.
A split-secondofsilence before light clapping ensues.
"Time for the test now!" Light laughter.
We proceed to quickly review the nicks and crooks
of Spanish grammar.
Someone makes a joke. Laughter. Humming. Good stuff.
(the window's been closed; the buzzing fly--safely, phew, out of mind).

This is why we get an education.
So that we can be educated about tragedies,
and then educate our screaming-bleeding consciences to
death,
burying them under layers andlayers
ofpapers
andgrades
to stop their haunting Screams,
and the stifling suffocation
of being miles and miles away, helpless,
but awakened.
Or perhaps I'm the only sensitive princess here,
writing this on a piece of paper,
unable to stuff my ears,
while others are moaning about the #%@! subjunctive.

I also say,
One man's pain is another man's forgo--tt--en---me-m--or----y------what?