Of course I don’t
remember the poem,
but in the fourth grade
I knew it was a lie
I was being forced
to read aloud and
when I finished
and looked around
I knew the others
didn’t.
Real stories
don’t stay where
they should because
it’s nice where it’s nice
to be nice all the time.
Even I knew that
even then.
Fifth grade:
another poem.
This time I made
changes as I read,
improvements:
left out words,
added words,
spiced it up.
(Pierre died after robbing
all the other squirrels
and kissing Paula,
the lady squirrel,
and all the kids cheered
as I walked back
to my seat.)
And it wasn’t that I had changed,
but I noticed the teacher never
liked me quite as much
or ever called on me
to read again.
She knew I knew.
