I see the face of the teacher
who chiseled names and dates into my brain
but provided no insight in what to do
when slipping on ice, falling on my arm,
clutching my right wrist and screaming in pain.
That teacher is praising this girl,
belittling that boy, because
of capital cities known or unknown,
but never once said beware of the melt
and following freeze, the sidewalk
like one bear-pit after another,
the name, me, the date, today,
the capital, one foot forward
and nothing to hold it there.
My teacher was silent on what to
say to a woman, how to sleep without snoring,
when to take the umbrella with you
and when to leave it at home.
He never said a thing about second
hand cars, mosquito bites, who to invite
to a party, when to throw out a sock.
So much he did not teach
but deferred to life and the chaotic living of it.
I stumble to my feet and there's his face
but not his hand helping me.
Two and two make four, he declares.
Four and four make eight.
But what makes one? He never says.
