Teacher

I thought I was alone On the farm, the one Where we had our commune So long ago, and where I'd finally broken down, Till I just sat, day after day In the livingroom closet Or out in the milk room Of the old barn. But when you appear And ask if I'll work for you, I say I will. You look trustworthy In your red flannel shirt With your greased black hair And 40 year-old's good looks. You demonstrate How to do the jobs By starting them yourself, Then letting me take over. Buckling yourself in To a newly painted Yellow-gold chairlift, You paint in what would be An awkward position otherwise, Part-way up the barn wall Above a length of unused Three-foot concrete pipeline. Next, using a sort of power-drill, You grind away caked oil and dirt From a big fixture Of metal shelves of tools. I take over each job As soon as you show me how, And I'm able to do them Just as smoothly as you. Seeing myself in action, I'm becoming thrilled To realize I'm not stupid The way my father Used to say I was Every time we moved Furniture together For his business, When I was a child. I can do anything I'm patiently shown! My Teacher, You're giving me the power, You're giving me the tools To free myself From the caked, Grimy shelves Of my own past.