Issue Seven Poetry

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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.