The Grammar Years Poem by Donal Mahoney
The Grammar Years
On that train an hour ago,
I saw a teacher I had years ago
but he did not see me.
A proper man was he
who in the margins of my papers
wrote his sermons in a script
so perfect and so neat
they looked like samplers.
But on that train an hour ago
I glowed in exultation when I saw
his index finger curl and pluck
a small erratum from his nose.
Monday, June 23, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: teacher
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4/19/2024 9:27:30 PM # 1.0.0.1119
