While riding my trike,
With my knees in the breeze.
My thoughts seem to roam
Through time with such ease.

The interesting thing
Is the places they go,
Way back in time,
Long, long ago.

And not just the fun times,
As one would expect,
But back to the classroom,
A place of respect.

In seventh grade English
The teacher had said,
By the year two thousand,
That she would be dead.

But we would be fortunate
And be here to see
The changes and wonders
Of a new century.

She still gave the homework,
Though some of us balked,
English was upstairs
And nobody talked.

An assignment was given
That shook us with fear
An author well known
By the name of Shakespeare

The Merchant Of Venice,
The play that was chosen,
Is part of my memory
That's no longer frozen.

I thought of the line,
While fixing a flat,
A small piece of glass
Was the reason for that.

Changes have come
But truisms are old
She's no longer here
And cannot be told.

I learned from her class
There's no reason to scold;
All things that glitter
Are not always gold.

David Miller
October 2005

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Last updated Oct 5 2005