Brian I’m gonna touch you
I’m gonna reach right out
And get you Brian
I’m gonna stretch my hand
Across this morass of baby chairs and desks
Grasp above this great hopeless fluttering
Flap of useless facts and fictions tacked to tired
Construction paper extolling static pictures
Of turkeys, Indians and Martin Luther King.
I’m gonna grab you Brian.
I’m gonna push myself right up against you
Push my nose and face up to the glass
And tap your anger
Turn the way you’ve bottled it
So when the cap gets twisted you explode.
Brian, somehow, some way
I’m gonna throw away the locks
And open doors
Prevent your being hitched to this dumb ox of a school
Machine that plans on dragging you on its slow pulley
From third grade
Toward that special prison in the clock tower
Reserved for men like you.
The one for men whose anger blinded them as boys
With a dyslexia so crippling that
They cannot see why they could not listen
To the futile warbling of Mrs. Warden’s voice
In that room of useless maps and directions
Leading nowhere in third grade.
- Barbara Tramonte