“Done”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights. Reserved

(10-25)

 

Getting things done

The joy of completed tasks

Tightened jowls behind a useful mask

Of purpose and discipline

Marching in place to a silent drum

My father’s favorite son

As I was taught

In a classroom, with desks arranged in a row

Organized and clean, books stored below

And a puppet-master at the chalkboard

With her hands extended

Like claws of a regal bird

We hung on every word

Every crumb of wisdom dropped from the teacher’s table

Reading my assignments, until I was unable

To focus my eyes

This rote routine, repeated

In the manner of a primer, read page by page

One handed down through generations

Of genetic spawn, lingering on

A testament to the drive

Of this genetic exercise

I never dared to think of veering away

From that lunchroom line ‘round the gymnasium

Heads bobbing in time to the spoons

Swung from morning until noon

Tapping lightly on plastic trays

Divided into arbitrary squares and triangles

Each one made full

With fried chicken and a potato puree

A chocolate pudding desert, for those who were brave

Able to ingest the reconstituted feast

A powder of cheese and desiccated beast

Milk in a glass bottle with foil as a cap

From a dairy, many miles across the span of a road map

Carried by transporter wheels

We were instructed in the art of clicking our heels

Smartly together

No matter what cause, time of day, or the weather

Seamless, without regrets

It is odd that as an old soul, I now forget

But that habit remains firmly set

Rolling my rock up a hill

Adding with pencil scribbles, the total of a bill

For volumes from a book sale

Paperback editions, published to be abused

Passed from hand to hand, casually used

My favorite authors distilled into lines of ink blots

Left to right across the paper horizon

Top to bottom, one by one

Scored and annotated with marks of the dignified departed

An explanation of what those classic minds imparted

Fixing us upon the target

The intended spot

I might have done better wandering in thought

Free from such a regimented swim through dark oceans

Of metaphor

But in those days, it was not thought to be wise

The notion of awarding a consolation prize

For such indifference to the task

To appear in public without a carnival mask

In clownish colors, portraying the contrast

Of white, yellow, and red

An oversized grin

Gaping and gawking at the seeker

The childlike slip of a shoe on the playground

Muddy and soft, turning in an arc

As the dodgeball comes flying, soaring and sleek

A crack of correction, rubber to the cheek

No student, old or young, can shun

Once again, getting things done