Math Teacher
She was known as "Miss Knuckle Rapper"—
My old-maid math teacher in sixth grade.
She was well-groomed, but hardly dapper
And unrelentingly strict, stern, and staid.
"You WILL master fractions," she pronounced,
Smacking her desk with a ruler of wood.
The desk wasn't all on which she pounced,
She'd rap our knuckles if she felt she should.
"Lay your hands on your desks, nice and flat,"
She ordered pupils who had somehow erred.
The ruler struck their knuckles with a splat.
It was the discipline she faithfully preferred.
But there was more to the Rapper, I know it.
Leading her students to learn was her passion.
The ruler was a prop to grandstand her grit.
She cared for us all, but only in her fashion.
At making math practical she was a star,
Noting that knowing numbers was a "must."
"I'm sorry to say it but you won't go far,
Unless you learn math from one you trust."
By school year's end I had come to know
My teacher was driven by admirable actions.
She ruled to prep us for what life would bestow,
Including the mastering of fractions.
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