By Megan Munger
The farmer waves as he drives past
on his tractor, and I assume
he’s all in for Trump.
Everything in the country is critical
in the early morning, or maybe
it’s just me, unadjusted
and always expecting catastrophe.
The road has become
a cut-throat businessman
who never tells me anything honest.
I’m waiting for another deer
to jump out, for his blood to run,
for his antlers to pierce windshield glass,
and for it all to barely miss me.
On these mornings after nightmares
where I watch all my loved ones
die, the critical voice keeps me
alive by echoing through the canyon
on my highway drive. In my classroom
closet, with one last Monday huff,
I hang up my trench coat of negativity,
all soot and grime. Underneath,
a clean blue dress, pearls,
a cream-colored cardigan.
December Evaluation: Dissatisfactory
By Megan Munger
Each morning in black bathrobe, I miss
the elliptical, my daily running to sweat out
anxiety, untrue student perceptions. I drink
coffee on my morning drive, wipe my eyes,
take a deep breath in the parking lot. Go teach.
Maybe it wasn’t always this way, but now
I come home each day and complain. I fixate
on temporary quiet, forget how to appreciate
the nice notes from students, the small wins.
My boyfriend and I argue about who
is right and who is wrong. We’re both
corroded from childhood grief, putrid guilt.
We’re too exhausted, always, capitalist
shift workers unwilling to do overtime.
Megan Munger is a Kansas poet and Pacific University MFA Candidate. She received her M.A. in English from Pittsburg State University, and she currently teaches English at Junction City High School in Junction City, KS. Her poetry has previously appeared in the Of Our Own Accord anthology by Flying Ketchup Press and online at The Coop: A Poetry Cooperative and Kitchen Table Quarterly.
