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.