Beckett’s Teacher Confesses

I realized today

while reading Act I,

I am not Vladimir

or Estragon. Aimless vagabonds.

I am Lucky.

Not lucky, Lucky.

The one who carries the bags

              of the rich, and the hard stool, who teaches children,

              not on purpose, to carry bags, too,

who puts down the load to dance,

              or think, when Pozzo cracks the whip,

who used to dance and think for joy

              before the QuaQuaQua

              for the A-cacaca-demy,

who now collapses, exhausted

who stands and carries on automatically

              when someone puts the handle

              of the bag in my hand,

says, Nothing to be done.