Summer School Epiphany Poem by Michael Pruchnicki

JOHNNY GOT HIS GUN
by Dalton Trumbo was assigned
as class reading one summer
in my senior year.
Most of it read aloud
by our English teacher.

Windows cracked open-
the sharp crack of bat on ball
on the diamond outside!
Shouts as hitters
rounded bases
and fielders caught pop flies!
We sat sweltering in the muggy room.

Perhaps it was the teacher's voice
that lured us at first
and teased us out of our discomfort;
gradually, bit by bit,
shouts faded to murmurs.

We listened intently.

'I can't hear! My arms!
What have they done with them?
No legs! Blind! A dream?
No more walking! No running!
Jesus, there must be some way! '

All the time the teacher read,
muffled and subdued sounds
filtered in from outside
as though we were deep in dream!
Dust motes swirled and glittered,
swimming in sunbeams.

The bell ending the last day rang.
We sat silently.
Footsteps hurried by in the hallway.