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Poem

He calls me names, the teacher said.
Her arms were crossed; her mouth was tight, 
She was mean-face-angry. Furious maybe.
What names? The boss asked her.
Does it matter? I wondered but later I was glad she had.

The teacher yelled out three names
“leave me alone Lucy”, “sound it out Sarah”, and
“Fix it yourself, Yolanda.”
These three names fit her personality better than a snakeskin.
I looked at the brilliant eight-year-old who had one-upped our own nickname for her.
and bit my lips as hard as I could, so my personality did not escape.

The boss’s eyes met mine; I knew we were on the same amused wavelength,
headed toward Uh-oh-land.
Good friends we both looked away but not before
Sound it Out Sarah figured it out.
She saw the look and knew

“Let’s go,” Fix it Yourself Yolanda said to the eight-year-old felon,
A psychoanalyst in the making, 
maybe already there without a degree.

He and “Leave me Alone Lucy” had traveled 
several meters down the hall
before the boss and I clutched each other, 
sobbing with happy laughter.
“Oh, we are going to get it now!” I thought.
Our own nickname for her was “Retaliation Rebecca”.

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