Antonio’s Song

A beggar covered in chalk dust
peddler of dittos, erasers and pushpins
pilgrim without destination
baby sitter without snack privileges
mercenary without weapons
honored by the off-tune chant 
“sub-sti-tute, sub-sti-tute, sub-sti-tute”:

I had the status of a head louse
the thriftless ambition of a raven
and taught everything from turkey casserole
to the math of five card stud.
The black girls tied my long white-man
hair in corn rows and called me Mr. Shoes
because my red shoes made me fly.

The MIA teacher left instructions:
assign from the required list
only one word to each
student for each to create only one
sentence for use in only one
card to send the White House.
Lots cast, Antonio drew “smother.”

I expected a cautionary tale
about how to keep the baby warm while
avoiding tragic over-diligence
but hoped for Maya Angelou’s recipe for
smothered chicken.

Surprising only me, Antonio wrote:
“My oh my
why
do they smother
our cry?”

Often I’ve wondered:
Did the White House write back? 
Did Antonio keep asking questions?  
Did someone hear him? 
Or did they just shut him up?

.

Jim Ross jumped into creative pursuits in 2015 after rewarding research career. He’s since published nonfiction, fiction, poetry, photography, plays, hybrid and interviews in 200 journals on five continents. Publications include Barrelhouse, Hippocampus, Kestrel, Lunch Ticket, NWW, The Atlantic, Typehouse, Wordpeace. Jim’s family splits time between city and mountains.