How I Discovered poetry.

It was like soul-kissing, the way Mrs. Doyle
Read from her desk. All the other kids zoned an hour ahead
to 3:15, but Mrs. Doyle and I wandered lonely as clouds born
by the breeze off mount Hood. She must have seen the darkest
eyes in the room brim:
The next day she gave me a poem she’d chosen
especially for me to read to the all except for me white class.

She smiled when she told me to read it, smiled and said
Oh yes I could. She smiled harder when I stood up
to the class and opened mouth and the
Banjo playing, darkies, disses and dats.
When I finished my classmates stared at the floor.
We walked in silent to the buses, awed by the power of words.