The Almost Children
Unsullied nuns in a sullen line,
watching us six year old’s.
Again I hear the quacking of ducks
as new brown leathers shoes
creak.
We stepped and skipped,
though skipping was a serious offense
behind the school fence.
What my eyes took in
or let out
I cannot now recall
or what I was, or who all others were.
We were an ad hoc grouping of tabula rasa
jostling to be known.
Blank slates were our minds.
I do not think anyone wrote on mine
or I on any other.
We were almost children,
happy to be unquestionably
engineered
to be good for Jesus.
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