For A Spectator Poem by I.J. Benjamin

i remember the sixth grade
and my teacher, an old gypsy woman with thick, greasy hair,
she would shout at me with a raspy,
liquor scolded voice,
run ben, run
but i would not and the black birds would shriek in fear of her.

i would stay right there in the grass,
in the shadow, but there was no shadow
i would dream for the whole hour,
as a red plastic ball was thrown around,
as the flowers moved in the wind,
as the sweaty children in the yellow uniform lost.