By Kenneth Pobo
In junior high I had a crush,
on Mr. Lotee, my history teacher.
How I stared as he stood
by the board and said how
Harry Truman is gaining respect.
When I told my very Christian friend
Donna about my crush, she told me
to pray. Mr. Lotee’s face
had pock marks—couldn’t I see that?
I saw it. I was in love.
I airbrushed them. She said
I should transfer my affection
to Miss Blarno, the Home Ec teacher,
who everyone said was attractive.
Love never transfers well. It’s like
having a substitute teacher.
We doodle rather than listen.
My love for Mr. Lotee didn’t
even last until Thanksgiving. By then
I loved Greg McIntyre who I worked beside
in wood shop. He made a book case
that could actually hold books.
Mine tipped over. To him, I was only
sun on a lathe.
My crushes kept adding up,
a stack of greasy cafeteria plates.