Dindi Sings MacArthur Park
By Ken Pobo

I recall the yellow cotton dress
which put me on in
junior high.  I had no
body, just a smile
and a signature.  Teachers

took attendance, a race
only they could win—
I said nothing,
nothing.  The dress
slid off my shoulders

when I got home and
wore jeans—even then
I couldn’t speak.  Mom said
fine—she’d do all
my talking.  Dad,

a gun-owner’s manual,
smelled like something
about to go off.  Which
he did.  I graduated
somehow, the dress

a yellow lion cub under
my black graduating gown,
the principal running away
as he was about to
hand me a diploma. 

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