And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and ascend the stair,
With the thought of his white and powdered hair
[They will say: “How she wants for discipline!”]
My yellow tank, the neckline framing perfectly my chin,
My boot-cuts stained and faded, showing just a little bit of skin—
[They will say: “But how her arms are jiggl-in'!”]
Do I dare
Disturb my grading time?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
Do I grade papers? Or do I revel in analyzing Bach? Do I wield the red pen, making upteen comments on the correct MLA format for works-cited lists? Or do I yield to the siren fugue of a freshly tuned George?
Should I wield or should I yield?
DoI work or do I play? Do I dare?
Ohhhh, decisions, decisions! And the correct decision is so depressingly obvious. I must grade papers.
One hour. I can give Bach an hour, since we lost one at midnight. I will regret this later tonight. I just know it. I will hate myself and hate my life. I should grade.
One hour. Then I'll grade to my heart's discontent.