Six Notebooks

This morning, on a short walk

Stopped to read some poetry

Which, I believe, one should carry

In case the thirst for something

Beyond this mortal coil

Arises with the sun Reading

A poem, I cast back to

Tenth grade English, to

MEB, weekly spelling tests with

A bonus word that was often

Beyond me, my spelling was quite good

But has deteriorated over the years

Yet a few lessons persist, perhaps not

The ones she thought would, taking

The paperback, the new paper back

I placed its spine upon the table

As she taught, opened five pages from the front

Creased them where they met the binding

Then five from the back

Creased them where they met the binding

Five, ten pages at a time, moving towards the center

Creasing each group where it met the binding

So that the book would be more flat

Easier to read

I consider also

That with a red pen

She would mark certain words

“May” would be circled in red

With “also means may not”

“Seem” and “Seems” would be crossed in red

“Weak” written next to it-

Also in red, she valued

Precision and strength in writing

Four decades later, we

Still meet, occasionally, for coffee

In the courtyard of her building or

The coffee shop next door

We don’t so much talk

About writing or spelling or

Preparing books for reading

But other things, about life

About the things that have gone sideways

And how we have righted ourselves

Or are attempting to do so

I have never told her

That while my spelling may no longer

Be ten out of ten

With the occasional bonus word

Subjugated, though this

Has failed me somewhat

That I still take each new book

Crease it along the binding

And strive mightily to

Avoid “may” and “seems”

To be strong in my writing

Precise in my thoughts

To try and carry that

Through the turbulations and trials

That I try to see clearly

To describe it precisely

That her voice still echoes

Whenever one of those words

Appears on my paper

Or in my thoughts

PWS 2023.07.09