Miss Shay, a Remembrance, a degree of Retribution and Requiem DRAFT

teacher! O, teacher! the run in your stocking

looks like a rayon roadway running parallel to the seam

leading downward to the heel, then over to the five peninsulas

of your toes then backward and upward to who-knows-where,

and the red, red lipstick you’ve applied this morning is running amuck across

the upper plates of your teeth which clack to the bottoms when you speak.

It’s a tactile sound which I look forward to listening to.

chalk dust smears your dress, and powders your face like the 18th century

French aristocracy, and I can’t understand what you’ve scribbled across

the blackboard,–– but the tips of the chalk tapping the surface is another

sound which intrigues me.–– listen.

you're wearing sensible shoes; a worn black leather, heavy-looking, and

the kid stationed at the open door hears you coming.

you have kids, and the kids have a big dog as the orderly exhibition

of your desktop presents them.

your husband has departed for parts unknown without the saving grace

of being killed in Korea, and the chain around your neck is clinging

to the earbuds of your eyeglasses, holding them tenderly to your breast

like the polished arms of marbled Mary (Batjacob) mourning the head

of descended Jesus, and how forlorn she seems, like you, Miss Shay.

but I digress from the true nature my recollections, so what I mean to say is,

go screw yourself and rest in peace.