You've never seen a person more nondescript,
a medium man in every respect, middle-aged
and colorless, with longish side hair combed
to cover a balding pate. Nothing distinguished
him except a furtive, frightened look
about the eyes, and I noticed that even before
someone clued me in about his problem.
*
Once I knew, I felt ridiculous, my resolute gaze
well above the equator but attention riveted,
despite my best intentions, on his crotch.
"Don't touch that zipper!" I'd be thinking,
all the while explaining sentence fragments,
why dependent clauses can never stand alone.
With all the thugs and thieves at their disposal,
wouldn't you know they'd send me a flasher.
*
He was the only guy I ever knew who couldn't
keep his pants zip . . ."wait! Let me rephrase"
the only flasher I ever knew, though it's possible
I may have disappointed a few on city streets,
lost in reverie as I tend to be, when a passer-by
could spontaneously combust without my notice.
*
When I signed on to teach "adult" education,
I wasn't thinking about the rating system.
But you know, as the weeks passed, I warmed
to this unfortunate--a straight-A student
with perfect attendance. I never could resist
a man who knew his semicolons.
*
As finals week approached, I almost think
he knew I cheered for him: "One day at a time,
Frank" I'd be thinking, as he made his way
to the elevators. "Just hold yourself together."
Believe me, there's nothing erotic about it
when I say I couldn't keep my mind off
his manhood, hoping it would stay tucked away.
*
But you know--Christmas was coming, finals,
the city streets were glazed with ice and everyone
was getting tense. A squeal, a squawk, commotion
on the sidewalk, and as we feared, no Frank
in class next morning. Wits were working well
in the teachers' lounge. But tears and laughter,
like rain and sunny skies, sometimes occur together.
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