I’m driving through a fog.
Home to public school, I
travel up and down hills,
the 45-mile-stretch
like an obstacle course
to test resolve.
I need this cloudy patch,
not as a puffy mattress,
but as an iron shield
“Teacher Poet: Advice Upon Visiting Her Classroom,” “Back to the Roots” and “Sunrise”
Framed diploma and teacher’s license,
taped on the institutional wall,
these credentials face the stars.
The star-struck welcome board posts a message:
Practice safety.
But will these stars fade, fall into the waste basket?
“November Cloak,” “Between Being and Doing” and “Toilet Talk”
Auntie Jane’s blanket,
attic stored, air cloved,
with her knitted cable yarn
she hums a morning tune.