But five still.
He was a man, grey and balding,
But blue and red could not make purple,And his A’s were awful U-ish.
His pencil had no ridges, it being
Fat and yellow like his fingers.
Why was mine so thin?
Outside of the school room,
His bellowing, his off-tempo skip,And laughter-induced slobbering--
All five.
That smile was five
Disguised in costumeAs a greying grandfather.
He was the only adult to
Play Tag and play it terribly,Not knowing what was “it.”
I didn’t know why.
No longer five,
I know.