Arithmetic

Third grade, 1944. He is thinking
about a Jack-in-the-box
pressed tight in blackness,
wanting so bad to spring up
and swing wildly, head bobbing,
eyes staring.
His neck scrunches into
his shoulders, tighter,
tighter, and --sproingg --suddenly
he's standing up, bobbing
next to his desk! Kids are laughing,
but not teacher! There's no way
to explain, so he makes a stupid face,
which leads to staying after school.
She taps the blackboard, says,
"Write your two times tables."
Yikes! He's got a headache!
She starts grading papers.
Hot-faced, he takes chalk
and starts his 2's by the windows,
writing big numbers. "All my 2's,
Miss Kelty?" he asks.
"All the ones you know."
He works from the window
to the door, reaches 2x37, peeks.
Miss Kelty is dozing. He pulls
the flag straight out and writes
2x39, 2x40, 2x41 on it.
By 2x47 he's at the doorknob
and in the hall, 2x48, 2x49 . . .
2x87 gets him to the water
fountain for a drink, by 2x108
he is at the girls' door.
Everyone's gone.
"KATHLEEN IS NICE," he writes
and starts down the other side
of the hallway. He's out the boys'
door at 2x272, down the steps
to the sidewalk. He writes
for blocks . . .2x351, 2x614, 2x793,
up the driveway, the steps,
the front door. "Hello, dear,"
his mother says. "You're late.
Did you have a good day in school?"
"Oh yes," he says,
"I did arithmetic."

--Conrad Squires