I think continually of those who were truly great,
My sixth-grade teacher, calm with numbers, time
The basics of map contours, end-rhyme
To a room of fifty. Didn’t hesitate.
My history teacher too, the flaneur of crime
A walking argument at the blackboard;
In class, chalk was mightier than the sword,
A Renaissance man in his own lunchtime.
My medieval tutors’ future views
Patient, their infinite preparations,
Translating cribs into the latest news.
And that teacher on whom I had a crush
And others yet with fancy curricula/-ums.
She asked me a question, made me blush.