Was not an inviting little
schoolhouse conjuring up fond
memories of an innocent time,
but a garrison grey structure
where strict discipline and obedience
held submissive scholars in check.
I remember most of my teachers,
a few with fondness, others
with sentiments bordering hate.
My third grade music teacher Mr. Dosa
was very short. The hump on his back
made him lean to the left when he walked.
I still see him coming down the hall
in his elevator shoes, the crooked walk
and the violin under his right arm.
He was kind and took a liking to me.
I had a knack for hitting the right notes
when we sang harmony.
My special job was to take the long
pointer from the chalk tray on signal
and use it to scratch his hump.
After which he would take me
on his lap and have me sing with him
We love the Green Forest.
I was eight and knew nothing of
what stirred men’s passions
I was honored to be singled out.
I never told my mother
but later wondered
what she would have said.
It was a time when parents
went to work, children went to school
and one life did not touch the other.