This poem was actually written about writing short stories, but I've been thinking about it, and I think it can also describe fairly well the state of my first few weeks in Poland.

A Poet Writes a Short Story

I could count them
if they would just stand still--

I know these four children and their parents,
and have learned the names,
ages, pets and hot dog/hamburger
preferences of two more.

The six of htem now sit with me
on carpet squares, but what will I do
with the thirteen, at least,
still making laps around
the craft tables?

Or all the children
--too many to count--
who have just slammed
their car doors on
their sisters' fingers
and are now approaching
my small classroom
at alarming rates?