A Teacher's Short Story

What made you this way? She asked me. Why do you care about us?
Alexia spoke, my greatest failure as a teacher. My silence answered her. The next day, I brought a picture of my brothers, Blake and Luke.
This is Blake, I said. He has mild mental retardation and cerebral palsy. He is a twelve year old stuck in a man’s body and he knows people don’t believe in his abilities. He knows the world doubts him. Yet, everyday, he forces himself to become a better man, even when it’s hard, even when someone makes fun of him, even when we doubt him. He graduated high school in 2004, and has held a real job for five years. Last fall, he enrolled in college. He is my brother and he taught me courage – the courage to face this world and never, ever give up.
This is my brother Luke, I continued. Like Blake, he has special needs. Luke thinks and acts like an over-active three-year-old. Luke will never get the chance to achieve what you already have, never become a father, a husband, college graduate, doctor, lawyer, businessmen. When he smiles as dawn breaks like water over a fall, he knows this day will be good. He shows me hope. When I hear his laugh as I walk into the door, his voice forgives me my sins of long absences. He is my brother, he is my teacher. He taught me hope and forgiveness.
I am not trying to teach history, math, English or guitars, I found myself saying. I’m trying to teach you, through my words and actions, something more. Courage, hope, forgiveness. Things so freely given which cost my brothers so much. The convictions necessary to walk in a scary adult world with dignity. This is who I am, this is why I teach, this is why I care, this is why I stand next to you.
Alexia stared back with glazed-over eyes. I can only hope she listened. What time is it? Another child asked. Time to go to work, I answer.
I turn back to you. What must we give our students? Courage, hope, forgiveness. We have just one shot, just one year. Courage, hope, forgiveness. One shot. It’s time for us to go to work..

Bamboo Shoot Boom Shot

Boom shot out like a bamboo shoot,
red hot steel-shot rain falling,
a man’s hard yellow hat bobbing.
He creates a joint and thinks of
separation. A well-heeled woman
crisscrosses the street below, never
looking above, never turning her head,
eyes to a horizon-line. The

Boom swings, wind-swayed, across
a rugged-steel, autumn-brick,
mirror reflection glass skyline,
then buckling, folding onto, into
itself, into the skyline, down to the
streetline. The hard yellow had bobs
against concrete curb, a red patent
leather pump next to iron tables.
A gull in the sky.

Drinkin' Poem

Whiskey spins kaleidoscope
Signaling lost ciphers
Of yesterday’s moonlight.
Tonight, a pale imprint of yesterday,
An inkling of tomorrow creates
A present, and she dreams
Of arms owned and unused by
Me. Today, a pale imprint,
Left on a ice-cracked memory,
A melody played on a forgotten
Instrument’s strings. Sleep and
Awake, for Homer’s rose-dipped
Dawn soon calls.