Kendel rises from his desk, back row, far corner
of the classroom, high school seniors, 1964:
English grammar, British Romantics, poetry
rhyme and meter, our dearth of words,

North East Texas football players come from
field house locker room, terrified of thees and thous,
How do I love thee?, force-memorized to stand
before the class of cheerleaders and majorettes

grinning, starring us down, daring us to look up,
freeze in place knowing each terrifying female
had memorized lines she would demand
before scooting thigh to thigh beside us

in our ’57 Chevys, Ford Mustangs, pick-up trucks.
Kendel was our hero, always going first, declaiming
the words we raced iamb to iamb, rhyme to rhyme,
knowing Miss Burkham, at her poetry-day position

back of the room, was even more grateful than we
for Kendel, Class Poet, assured he would save us from
ever, ever, being singled out for laurels, trochaic-footed
teammates treading the boards, our number up.

Kendel, forgive us. How we did love thee.

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*Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Sonnets From The Portuguese, 43, “How Do I Love Thee, Let Me Count The Ways.”