Mrs. Furness, my second grade teacher,
long dead now, told my mother,
“If I believed in geniuses, he is one.”
Made me her pet, skinny me, buck teeth,
owl glasses, unruly cowlick,
left in charge of the class
when Mrs. F. went to the Ladies Room.
Watched over her desk, stopped
kids from messing around.
Janie did, despite my protests,
stuck out her tongue.
Class clown, tipped over
the inkwell on all the papers,
fled to her desk just in time.
“Who did this!.” screeched Mrs. F.
“Who did this!,” spit my name.
I was mute. Janie and the class
prayed I would not tattle.
What would the kids do?
Push me off the monkey bars?
Flip me off the Teeter-Totter?
Refuse to play?
Billy once spit on Stuart.
Mrs. F., arms akimbo, glared:
“Either you tell who
or I call your Father.”
Terror squeaked out, ”Janie.”
She dragged her up front,
flashed her ruler, whipped her,
ripped her dress,
sent her to the office,
the class yelled, cried, glared.
It is said: Spare the rod, spoil the child.
And they spanked, switched
and whipped, even beat
until Dr. Spock—the Dr. Seuss for butts—
said: Wrong thing to do.
In Texas, they allow paddling again.
Triumphant Mrs. F., arms akimbo,
smiles down from above.
Originally published in Ink Pantry