My Teacher

by Richard M. Romney

Youth and age together

came to our house every month—

High priest still with cloudless

skies in his vision.

(He always gave the message.)

He rode a motorcycle once.

He told us.

The young one didn’t talk much

for a teacher.

Funny name for a teenager.

Aren’t they still learning?

But sometimes he shoveled

our walks.

Or helped Mom mow the lawn

after Dad was gone.

He always bounced a ball with us.

And hugged us when we sat

next to him on the couch.

And when he talked, I listened.