classical

our English teacher in Jr. High,

Mrs. Gredis, didn’t sit behind

her desk, she kept the front

desk empty and she sat on

the top of the front desk

and crossed her legs high and

we saw those long silken

legs, those magical flanks,

that shining warm flesh as she

twisted her ankles and recrossed

her legs with those

black high-heeled shoes and

spoke of Hawthorne and

Melville and Poe and others.

we boys didn’t hear a word

but English was our favorite

subject and we never spoke

badly of Mrs. Gredis, we didn’t

even discuss her among ourselves,

we just sat in that

class and looked at Mrs. Gredis

and we knew that our mothers

were not like that or the girls

in the class were not like that.

nobody was like Mrs. Gredis

and Mrs. Gredis knew that too,

sitting there on that front desk,

perched in front of 20 fourteen-year-old

boys who would never

forget her

through the wars and the years,

never a lady like that

watching us as she talked,

watching us looking at her,

there was laughter in her eyes,

she smiled at us,

crossed and recrossed her legs

again and again,

the skirt slipping, inching

delicately higher and higher

as she spoke of Hawthorne and

Poe and Melville and more

until the bell rang

ending the class,

the fastest hour of our day.

thank you, Mrs. Gredis, for that

most marvelous

education, you made learning

more than

easy, thank you, Mrs. Gredis,

thank

you.

Charles Bukowski, Bone Palace Ballet (Ecco, 2002)