Mr. Sterling walked
down the aisle
of the class
pausing by each
desk, continuing to teach
as he talked
to one boy alone
by himself in the corner
and every other
student followed every word
of every thought
as they ought
to and he thought,
“Good.
Nothing is misunderstood.”
He looked down silently
at the boy withdrawn
into himself,
moving his hand to cover
what he had written
all alone where he was sitting.
Mr. S. gently moved the hand aside,
to himself cried, “Wow!” inside
but whispered, “Good,”
patted the desk
and returned to the front
of the room where the rest
of the class followed his voice
with their eager focused eyes.
“Now class, it’s no surprise
that, after days of rhyme,
you know how easy
it is to grab some words
out of the air
everywhere
and fit them together
easy peasy
even sleazy
in any weather
whether
or not they make the best of sense
and keep us here behind the fence
that shuts us off from some of the best
of the rest
of the world.
We do have virtuosic Wilbur
who takes us where we never thought we could
beyond, say, a shallow fellow
like E.A. Poe
who keeps us in thin water,
doesn’t know
the deep or how to get there,
only the easy satisfaction where
the body responds to the comfort
of closure
the answering echo
of resonant pleasure
the physical accomplishment
when even near rhyme
and broken rhythm
can help a little
more but not enough.
So the stuff
we thus produce
is of insufficient use
to get us to the deeps
and keeps
us from what’s behind
the universal mind.
Now class,
here’s want I want you
to do,
bring the rhymes you’ve written,
tomorrow’s soon enough,
and share your stuff
with us.
I see the bell’s about to ring.
Class dismissed.
John, stay.
I’ve a little more to say.
I’ll write you a pass
to your next class.”

The bell rang.
the class left,
Mr. S. came over
and sat by John, who still tried to cover
his paper.
“John, I want to tell you about myself.
I grew up alone…”
John said, “You too?”
“I sat on an empty shelf,
learned to write the way you do,
finding something new
in words,
trying them out
with a column on the right
of possible choices,
my own thesaurus,
to see what’ll fit
and say, “That’s it!”
The voices
of others I never heard,
I was a loner
shy and unsure
enured
to myself
but needing people
like the steeple
of a church announcing its presence,
“I’m here
for you
come inside
don’t wait
we’ll congregate.”
I was young alone
but I grew up,
and look at me now,
look at me now,
well look at me!
There’s always hope
when there’s life
and you’re alive.
I’ve
learned the lesson
you can and will,
open yourself up
and we’ll open to you.
When you’re ready,
you’ll share yourself
and we will too.
Enough for now,
See you tomorrow.”

John went home,
and the very next day
the class reassembled,
eager to share.
Everywhere
hands were raised
waving papers with their words,
“Me! Me! Pick me!
I need to read!”

Lazy Tom shambled to the front,
looked fixedly at one,
the girl in the third row,
and intoned,
“Louise, Louise,
You fill my needs!”
She answered back,
“No way, Jose.
There’s not a chance
I’ll join your dance.”
The class chuckled,
Tommy buckled,
Slouched back to his seat
In defeated retreat,
and Mary stood up
to fill the gap.
She read from her paper,
“I’m living through life
when each day’s a surprise.
It opens my eyes
to see more to life
than just being a wife.
I look to a fuller future
with someone I can share
more than already’s there.”
She looked meaningfully at John
in the corner and sat back down.

The class was impressed,
waiting for who’s next.
John stood uncertainly
and said, “I’ll give it a try.”
The class cried out,
“He speaks! He has a voice!”
Mr. S. asked, “Ready?”
John said, “Steady on,”
and stood before the class
to whom he’d never spoken
to let them know he wasn’t broken,
the audience
in a trance
listened as he began.


The Lost Boy
I am the lost boy.
I sit alone in my room.
It’s cold like a tomb.
My hopes and my fears
are drowned in my tears
falling for years.
I looked in the mirror
and turned my mirror to the wall.
I miss so much
the human touch
of others.
Loneliness smothers
my every day.
I have no life.
I doubt I’ll ever find a wife.
I am a need
on which I feed.
It isn’t fair
that I’ll just vanish in the air.
I could bring someone joy,
but I’m the lost boy.”

He stood before the class
and looked at Mary.
It was scary,
speaking himself.
But the class understood,
shouted, “That was more than good!
We never knew
who were you,
what you can do. We’re with you, bro,
now you we know.”
Mary nodded.
John, having broken the dam,
Said, “Here I am!
Let’s get together
in this clement weather!
Let’s go for pizza!
I’ll treatcha.
I’m starvin’
and strivin’
to be myself.
Come with me.
This time I’m drivin’!”

Mr. S. smiled happily at his success.
Whispered, “I settle for nothing less.
I know, and always knew,
that’s just what teachers do.”