An Elementary Epistle

An Elementary Epistle 

The message was distorted when she got

            the line, flimsy as the plastic yellow slide 

or granular as rubber bits of shredded tire,

            but man those purple shoes were nearly

spiritual, the spouts her mother twisted

            from her head enough to make a camel thirst,

and it was this that kept me periodically 

            peeking over to see what she would say 

on hearing my real, if whispered, profession.

            It's easy, recollecting back when you can  

see the storyline as full as I can see the waters 

            of the Tennessee from where I’m writing this    

(it too remembering a past or sorts), to say 

            that surely there were more efficient ways

to speak of love, a less dependent method

            than a recess game of telephone around 

the monkey bars—and yes, I will agree

            the margin for misinterpretation was high, 

but so it is with anything that’s worth 

            expenditure of blood or breath. Of course,

the text would be as faded as Ms. Wilky’s 

            copies of Ms. Miller's copies, that probably 

she wouldn’t understand at all, or would,

            but not exactly that which I had passed

along, but I was betting less on this and more

            on my messianic place as 4th-grade savior

of the playground—that, and on the rumor

            she was starving for a lover, the forever-

kind.  Twist it as they might, I knew one look

            at me would be enough— just take the peek!