-Almost zero / a Requiem for old Miss Sykes-

Almost zero.

Not the outside temperature in winter, although

Here in Paradisum it wouldn’t have been an outlier.

December classroom’s hot with steam.

The third aisle in from the door is sweltering

By the grace of Bernadette Baker.

My head will come to rest upon my forearms, draped

Across the lid of the desk regardless of season.

Who knew the limits in the span-of-attention as I did?

Nobody, but for the grievance of old Miss Sykes.

The report cards delivered by my hand pushed my parents
To the precipice of exhaustion.

It’s probably 1955 and "Almost zero" confronts them

Like a blast of wind from the throat of Carol.

Backyard tree's uprooted in September 
And roadways are flooded, knee-deep.

They asked: “Is Rebop in the house”?

They feared the loss of reception and the pains of Hell.

Widows were stripped in masking-tape to ward-off the wind

Like old testament lamb's blood brushed at the doors
Upon the edict of Pharaoh.

Then the cursive scrawl in blood-red: “Almost zero”
Writ by the withered hand of old Miss Sykes adds to the pile

Of frantic goings on confronting me and my earliest house.

Finito