Pictures spring up as memories unfold
of braided hair and oiled crew-cuts each morn.
The brown canvas shoes and long socks unroll.
A badge of truth broached on beige uniform.
With a khaki bag strapped, trudge the lazy
to the gates where our pillars of fate stood.
And, if school bells not awake the dozy,
shrills of the short-fused gardener surely would.
But when a white chalk squeaked on wide black board-
a hush screened the class, now filled with riddles.
Silent and shy we sat – in pretense bold
until the teacher defogged the scribbles.
Tho years fly by, the knowledge not age-
mischief remains, laughter still the language.