when i was seven
my dad took me bowling
and the man working at the counter
the student teacher in my 1st grade class
this struck me odd because
after all, he was my teacher, and teachers do not live in the real world
he belonged behind a bulletin board covered in a sheet of stapled bright paper
not some dingy cubby holes encasing tattered shoes
he should have been busy dreaming up new ways to teach us our multiplication tables
not throwing a size 11, 4 and 6 on the gum-encrusted countertop
and at that very moment
why wasn't he
photocopying crossword puzzles and lyrics to raffi songs?
but, more curiously,
why wasn't he smiling?
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