Miss B

Miss B

We hit Miss B. like a pitcher of water
Hits a brick wall.
Racing into junior high
Full of ourselves.
Top of the heap
From sixth grade small ponds
Where we had been big, bad, best fish


She ruled at the top of the stairs
Fog horn voice slowing the headlong rush,
Quieting the roar of teen adrenalin and hormones

Leaning her muscled, bulldog form on the metal railing
Overlooking the stairs,
She saw us all as God does
From impossible distance. with horrifying accuracy.
Commenting on our careless clothing, headlong rush, or furtive hand holding
With deadly aim
Naming names

"Miss Reid, tie those laces before someone steps on them?"
"Mister Brown, SLOW DOWN!
"Miss Rollins, Mister Jones, sex is not a spectator sport."

Impartial, firm as rock
She offered a no-compromise bridge
From child
To adult,
Impulse to control
Headlong and loud to civility

She rode us hard
From the top of the stairs,
And the front of her math class
We complained about her loudly
(when she wasn't around, )

　
　
And we
Who slowed down on the stairs,
Reluctantly released sweaty palms,
And tied our shoes in the middle of the lunch rush,
Remember her still,
Stance wide, folded arms, fog horn voice,
Forty years later,
Long after the math
Has gone clean out of our heads