Big the river
Not so, the town
Maybe five thousand
Souls, all ’round
County seat all the same
Courthouse, grain elevator
There in the midwestern
United States of America
Where the corn grows high
And the beans down low
For miles and miles
Row by row
I grew too
A pencil line at a time
Up the light brown board
Beside the door they climbed
‘Til long about nineteen and seventy-eight
I didn’t want to go
But also couldn’t wait
Public kindergarten
My own art box
Of crayons and markers
Erasers, ruler, chalk
To drop crash-bang!
On the hallway tiling
Treasures scattered among the shoes
Of other children laughing, smiling
First encounters with casual cruelty
With man’s
Inhumanity
To man
And the fact
That I was well-spoken
Knew some numbers, all the letters
Just made me the brunt of jokes and
When in first grade they
Took naptime away
I cried and cried, of course I cried
At lunch most every day
Gym class was…
A special hell
Where brilliant me failed
As all others excelled
I could barely run
Couldn’t catch or throw
Always last to be picked
First to get a bloody nose
I wore glasses, I grew chubby
All I wanted was to eat and to read books
Wherein lay wonders and new knowledge
Everywhere you looked
Well, life is long, and in its fullness
One comes into one’s own
I hardly think of those years
Now that I am grown
Yet doubtless, doubtless, somewhere in me
Is still that little boy
Crying for nap at lunch
And books his only joy
I feel so sad for children like this. They generally grow up to be amazing people.
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This sounds so like me… I too missed my nap and hated gym class… maybe growing old has something good.
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Such a sad poem. I too hated gym class. Being a girl, I could get “a letter” from my mother to skip class. After the 6th letter in a row my gym teacher glared at me. She talked to my mother. My mother stood her ground. She knew I was a special child and did better with poems than I ever did tumbling and climbing up ropes. I grew up. And books are not my only joy but they are still part of my joy. Too many times children are made to try to conform, to all wear the same clothes, to enjoy the same things. I’m forever thankful my mother did not agree with this policy. and alas! My lines on the door jamb only went up to 4’10″…. 🙂
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Oh man you just described me! 😀
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This is deeply sad.
I can smell those crayons and markers, though. So well described.
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The poem reads so well… the trauma and growing out of it… though the scars remain somewhere inside.
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