And with the overcast day comes second grade,
50-plus years ago, lined with marble
composition tablets, its wood and wrought-iron desks
bolted in tandem to the floor,
mimicking the lockstep lessons
dispensed with religious fervor
by the sisters of St. Felicia -
full habits hiding thick red hair.
A pencil sharpener sits on the window sill.
It was either there,
a few steps to the sharpener with a #2
or a trip, following interrogation -
the urgency of the request signified
by holding one's crotch
first with one hand then with both
while rocking back and forth -
to relieve oneself in the boys' room,
the walk back through the cavernous halls
as slow as a dead man's.
This morning I am at the pencil sharpener,
shortening in slow motion a yellow hexagonal Ticonderoga,
dreaming about a stream filled with brookies,
scales glistening in the wet sun,
while looking out at the cemetery across the street
where the dearly departed, engaged in board games,
await the final roll call.
