I can’t take your class because on Tuesdays

and Thursdays for two years, my sister and

I were sent to Mrs. Collins’ after school at 3:00

while my mother taught Hebrew school.

Mrs. Collins would open the door and the big mole,

above her lip, sprouting several gray hairs

expanded in greeting as she flared her nostril pointing

to the den with her fat finger, chipped nail.

We watched Dark Shadows and commercials

for Mr. Clean on the Magnavox while guessing

the gagging smell in the house.  Shit,

I offered.  Farts, my sister ventured.

The Mole would go upstairs to check on the Mister

and we’d sneak into the pink Formica kitchen.

I grabbed forbidden lard cookies, iced my tongue vanilla,

coating my teeth with the black part.

Once Mr. Collins wandered through the

house, a plastic nodder doll in hand.  With each squeeze

of its base, dolly’s tasseled top fell down as sister

and I giggled in the den, listening to Mr. Collins’ cackling.

True, the Collins’ are dead and good

help is hard to find.  I’m raising three kids

so my poetry will have to wait, like Mr. Collins