The Lint-Picker She brought her four-year-old daughter to visit school,
the one who we knew only as the reason our tests were returned late,
and among the hallucinatory reflections of well-banged lockers
and the random purple-blue blip mosaic of the fuzzy hallway carpet
the daughter, in a rare moment of wild unbridled wonder
amongst baby fat and unyielding domineering overseeing stares
bends over on her knees and curiously picks
a sole, miniscule piece of lint from the ground,
only to be taken aback, turn, gaze up at
the fear-striking, jealous goddess of biblical shame
arms crossed in a perpetual straightjacket
high cheek bones always set as stones
hard, harsh and never hesitant to
disown you,
lips that frown by default,
even when laughing she spits out rage,
and the eyes that condescend unamended authority,
the daughter immediately snaps into reality
and at behest of the ever-present stare
returns the lint to the exact place it was so gingerly plucked from
in that one shattered moment of youthful bliss,
tends to the taut, strict, outstretched hand
that will serenade into the classroom
to teach slightly elder subjects of history.