The Instructor Poem by Sheena Blackhall

The Instructor



The instructor is not in the room
He's a faceless, long distance prompt
And I have no manual and no schedule

I rest my elbows on the desk
I have a pencil, a pad, a laptop, and expectations

He is working from home, I expect,
I wonder if he has a cat
And a little family running amok in the kitchen

He talks me through the procedure
Like the naming of military parts
I am a primitive, learning the speech of Martian

He's a well-oiled engine
Gear changes are second nature, automatic
I am an apprentice, learning to read the dipstick

My failures to follow through to a slick conclusion
Are reflected in the sharpening edge to his voice
At every turn, I seem to derail his train

We are half an hour into a lockdown impasse
‘Nobody else has this problem in understanding'
He exclaims, ‘others are waiting who'd benefit from this service'
The phone clunks down. The instructor is right, of course

Am I the only technophobe in the village?

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