I didn’t know in 1985,
when I boarded the Bronx #2
train to Simpson in this unknown
part of the city, I would find
blocks of stores not yet awake.
Clean crisp streets, pigeons
plump as chickens atop waste
containers alongside seagulls
whose wings turned wider
than my kitchen table. I stopped
in front of The Jimmy Jazz
Clothing. The tall woman reflected
in the glass window wore
a wool jacket she borrowed
from her mom. Her new shoes
rubbed the back of her heels raw.
A cloth bag jammed full
of books about teaching pulled
at her right shoulder. She stood
like a real teacher would. Ready.
I paused for one long moment, shifted
leg to leg, lifted my head.
I didn’t know in 1985,
that twenty-eight children, were
waiting for me, waiting for me
to teach them —how to line up,
how to read their first words,
how to add primary numbers.
I did not know in 1985,
about the school building rooted
on a steep hill. How it held
hundreds of bricks on its shoulders.
Or that stone gargoyles perched on top
of its roof would spread their long
wings, as I pulled its red doors
apart, stepping across its marble
threshold thirty-one seasons.