Stanford Binet?

don-bouchard Poems

Carl didn't finish school Preferring to work on my father's farm Breathing prairie dust and smoke Seeing suns rise and fall Living under the weather Freezing or sweating to the season Reading the wind Cursing the heat that brought migraines Smoking Salem cigarettes Alone in his bunkhouse With his regrets Three meals a day with us A car or truck demanding payments Kept him coming back to work The draft cards came; Neighbors left, but Carl stayed. One day I asked him, "Why didn't you finish school?" "Why weren't you drafted?" "Are you going to marry?" "I can't," was his reply. I asked him why. "Because I tested as a border-line ***** At 10, I had no idea what ***** meant, Had never heard Stanford-Binet, Didn't realize the damage of labels, But now I do. When authorities mis-measure the capacities of a man, And labels shackle, They fail to see or know The genius in a Carl. They didn't stop to think What gifts he had Nor had they seen The perfection Of his creations There on the bunkhouse table. Perfect miniatures of our farm machinery: Tractors, cultivators, harvesters, Cut from plastic and metal stock, Measured intricately to scale, Fitted with loving care, Glued and painted Complete and ready For some small-minded man To drive into a miniature field.