~for J Donovan Carrasco & Mike Marshall,
two far superior story tellers~

<>

now that I am in my seventh or eight decade,
(not particularly sure when you start counting)
memories bust out like the way flashbulbs POP on olden cameras,
a briefly hellish bright,, illuminating, yet annoying as all get up.

this peculiar flash came to me this morning, don’t know why,
deemed worthy of writing down for no particular reason.

when I was a child in one of those indistinguishable early grades,
my teacher informed my father at an annual parent teacher partee,
that I was “not particularly smart,” which angered him greatly,
for reasons he couldn’t then particularly express clearly, if at all.

He went home undecided whom he had to hide (1),
the teacher or me.

unsure, he was, which was the smarter course of action
(for my mother had passed and he without a consultant),
but informed me, who promptly hid (as in escaped)
in the only place suitable in our tiny house, behind the couch,
that was my mother’s pride an joy.

more tired than angry, he reflected while sitting on said couch
behind which I found refuge from all troubles,
while listening to my breathing/sniffling/panting,
he decided that
perhaps
the teacher was kerrect, and furthermore, I too,
was not to blame,
(told to me years later by his serious drinking bar buddies)

“given the stock he came from, it was less my fault,
and more his.”




3/23/23
nyc


(1j hide as give a hiding, a countable noun, if you give someone a hiding, you punish them by hitting them many times).