Each month, write a new collection.
LatinTranslating VirgilI sing of arms and the manI had loved Latin the year before ourTeacher was Mrs. Bennette and she was married to a blindGuy who was a genius piano player and an advocate for sightlessPeople. She taught us Caesar and Ovid — I think — but then we got the German Latin Teacher. Miss Von Heerman — I realize now she was yet another dispossessed aristocrat —Von Is like de in French — and we had a ton of these teachers at our school, so maybe she was pissed off becauseHitler had like taken her Shloss or her Palast or something (she for sure wasn’t jewish), and she was one of those falselyCheerful teachers who acted like she believed in you, but really thought you were stupid. Reading Virgin was misery and poorDido — I felt for her. I was ready to kill myself too just to get out of going to that class, but I hated most of my classes it’s just that LatinWas worse because I had loved it before. Learned all those fun phrases. Rara Avis means rare bird and cool stuff like that. They say miseryMakes you stronger, but I think it just makes you miserable. A slog you survive. Arma virumque cano. I sing. I sing. Despite Virgil and her.
My imperfectionsMy momShe was having a feudWith the neighbor next doorLike always, because it was in her bloodTo piss people off and to make things rightWe were playing frisbee and it flew into theirYard, they confiscated it, so my mom took the Big wheel out of their drive way and was ApprehendedBy the old lady and her daughterTearing her apart limb by limbStretching her until she yelled “Daryl”I went into action and used my baseball mittOn the old lady and said, “Let go of my mom”She pushed me aside as I fell down to the street Crying as she stopped what she was doingBecause it had gone too farAnd she exclaimed to my mom“You always expect him to be perfect”My mom denied it But I remember later, she told me it was trueShe always expects me to be perfectThat is why I cry and can’t measure upTo being perfectMy therapist told me at ten years of ageWhy don’t you try to get a “B” instead? Of an “A” and you will not wet your bedOh, I think he was right. Now l know. The pressure of a boy growing up tryingTo measure up to be a man And never being able to accomplish Really put too much pressure on me As a boy in a man’s world a mom with a sonWho never could replace his divorced father? Never to be the man he was