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It’s typical presumably

to be drawn to our children’s teachers

their caregivers

their devotion to our young

renders them spouses, of a type

extensions of the spousal relationship

their professional concern

for the safeguarding of under sixes

who bear our genome

to be easily confused

– for the atypical narcissist –

with love or a considered attempt

at seduction

particularly when the caregiver

is tan and exquisite

and gentle of manner

though certain of the ways of pleasure

all bets off beyond

the caregiving environment

heaps of sublimated reprimand

finally vocalised in sexual violence

and at the parent day

I wait for the breeze to lift her

dress, for knicker fabric over pudenda

the buttocks of the caregiver

the smell of the cunt of the caregiver

in the attendant centigrade

the breeze truculent

the breeze disobliging

are dresses designed to preclude their

own ascent

at the whims of meteorology

I’ve waited years in increments

and for naught

the dresses they rightly scoff.