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The Way to School, 1943

J. Quinn Brisben



“Third call to breakfast,” and I run
But looking both ways first, for Maine Street
Is also US Sixty-Four and the chains spark
As they drag on the pavement from the
Big tanker trucks as required by law,
And slow as I reach the corner of Eighteenth,
For choices, irrevocable choices, must be made.

“Third call to breakfast,” all the way
From the Blue Network studios in Chicago
In the Merchandise Mart with Don McNeill,
Aunt Fanny, Sam, and all the rest, telling
Me that I have half an hour of Central
War Time before the tardy bell to get
To Adams Grade School, and I must not dawdle,
Or dawdle only a little, if I run fast before
And after each dawdle, and run straight,
Not like a poky lazy tardy little puppy.

“Third call to breakfast,” through the screens
Of Mrs. Haskins’ open window with the smell
Of baking bread with caraway seeds because she
Is Bohemian and they bake bread with caraway seeds,
And also from the screens of Mrs. Coldiron who,
Like Grandma Quinn nearby, is a Past Matron
Of the Eastern Star, and today I choose more
Maine Street and run down into the hollow by
The small and nameless creek where Mr. Barton
Has a Champlin station and will pay you if
You get there first one nickel per pump to
Pump up the amber and ruby gas in the graded
Glass, and that is real money because a nickel
Will buy pop or a candy bar or get you all the way
Downtown on the bus, and a dime will buy this
Week’s chapter of Spy Smasher plus Wild Bill Elliott
Doing fast draws although he is “a peaceable man”
And Dub Taylor falling into the horse trough and
A Porky Pig cartoon, or it will buy sixty-four pages
Of a full-color comic book of Captain Marvel
Fighting the Nazi worm-genius Mr. Mind.

“Fourth call to breakfast,” and I run
Up Twenty-First Street past the Sunday school
Of University Place Christian Church where
God commands us to be bored each week,
Across Broadway and wave to Mrs. Bird
Who is snapping beans or shelling peas,
And I might help her if she is still there
On my way home, for that is good for
A cookie or two, or perhaps help toothless
Mr. Ballard who gardens bottom land between
Broadway and Randolph and sells produce
From a wheelbarrow and will sometimes give
A mother-pleasing ear of corn to those
Who help him push, but now I must run
Across Randolph as permitted by the huge
Sixth grade safety patrolman in his white belt
And get to the door just ahead of Margie
Who lives just across the playground and can
Listen almost to the end of the fourth call of
The Breakfast Club, and I am on time and
Have not sinned by taking the alleys between
Maine and Broadway where a snow drift froze
My hands last winter or crossing the wild
Jungle by the creek full of lions and Japs
And the dirty words on the boarded-up Eason
Station “closed for the duration”; I have
My times tables memorized, pencil sharp,
With a clean sheet of tablet paper, ready.







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