A Writing Teacher Walks at Midnight
in Rural America
I walked to see the lightning wound the east.
Half a moon filled the clearer dark behind me.
The village fountain spurted higher than
one I'd seen at Tivoli.
Above the splash, I heard the cars,
one by one,
till six had revved,
jerked to a stop, and screeched again.
The teenaged
drivers shouted,
"Louise!" "Sissy! "Queer!"
as if part of
a Roman nightmare.
Oblivious, the jagged eastern dancer
entertained
the half-winked moon
for five silent minutes,
as I sat on
the damp edge of the fountain,
newer, less romantic, than the Italian one,
fitted with
mechanical gushers
for these level plains.
"Hi, doc!" called an elderly colleague
from his dark
sedan
as he waited for a green light
to drive his
mistress home.
The east fully scarred,
I retraced my
steps.
My fairy powers activated more engines.
Adolescent hecklers
each season
sprout as predictably as pubes.
"Faggot!" another rehearsed through his beer
to impress his
date
parked in the truck in a dark lot.
"Georgia. HJV
925. County Peach."
I memorized as I neared.
"Do you have anything to say to me?"
I said with my huskiest voice.
One boy mumbled,
"Naw,
I ain't said nothing."
"Does anyone have anything to say to me?"
"Git outa here.
Nobody's
botherin you,
ya nigger-loving, ass-licker faggot!"
the original
mustered.
His tremolo freed me this time.
Back home hot pis glued my pants. |