The Portables

The Portables Baby boomer fourth grade, We overfill Longfellow school. Like coffee running over the cup brim. Caught in a saucer of portables, Two garage like class rooms, Like Siamese twins, joined at the middle. Flanked by rows of single paned windows, That shake and rattle when the wind blows. Bulletin board doors filed across, the back, Masquerading as a cloak room. Hiding coats, hats, shelves and boots from view. One door between the two, At the conjoined middle, Side by side exterior doors from each class, were never just opened, But burst or exploded with a blast. As forty five of us fought, For the first breath of freedom. As salmon fight to swim upstream. Two teachers shared responsibility, For weaving the fabric of our education. I was lucky and got Mrs. Cuddly, Who taught us times tables, decimal and fractions. And reminded me of grandma, instead Of every fourth grader's constant dread. Whose wooden arm, it was rumored, Was used to beat you over the head. Mrs. Wooden arm turned out to be quite kind. And taught nouns, verbs and spelling. And the magic of the written word, Like a caterpillar becoming a butterfly, She gave our imaginations multi-colored wings. And taught them how to fly. Which is really the difference, Between great fiction and an obvious lie.