Obeying the Whistle
A thin-lipped nun blows her whistle.
An acre of concrete ground
stops playing, acting-out
our brief make-believe lives.
Reality is a cold wind
chewing at pale knees, gray shorts
and blue skirts.
Catholic children forget their names,
their made-up names as well.
as they march into the bricked block
where classrooms are already
shouting instructions.
Old now, we forget how it felt,
as we filed into the bare-boned halls
of a bickered religiosity.
How we had to study by rote,
like our times-tables,
how angry God would forever be
with us kids.
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