Middle-class, Clean, and Not
Our teachers disappear. They mostly fade
Entirely into wings beside our stage
Like actors with bit parts. They enter shade
And deeper darkness. Our minds turn the page
And most of them are gone forever. Few
Remain as vivid as they were at times
When something brilliant happened, something flew
Up from the page, or from their tongues like chimes
In heaven, heard below. They taught a song
In choir or stunning poetry, like shouts
From God. They moulded us into a throng
Of saints, however briefly, murdered doubts.
And then these teachers disappeared. They went
Their adult ways. They never left a scent . . .
. . . Except for the ones who managed to commit
A sin, or managed to point out a fact
About us, that encouraged us to slit
Our wrists, or caught us in a shameful act
Like plagiarism, cheating on a test,
And holding hands in the chapel. Mr. Pike
Was nabbed for jollifying an undressed
Male crotch, its soft bits and its hairy spike.
Years later (wouldn’t you know it?!) you meet
Him once again and both of you ignore
The stench from public toilet—indiscreet
Lust stuff—and him thrown out the school’s back door.
But I remember that this man forgave
A lie. I’ll keep his goodness till my grave.