KICKPLATE

Having an eighth grade granddaughter makes me reflect.  Not so much on the last year of junior high as we called it before it was called middle school, but on what lies ahead for Amelia F. Quinn.

I hope she puts more into it than I.  One example.  As a junior I was in a few plays and I worked on a few more as a quasi-stage crew member.  I was responsible for building a window for the set of The Diary of Anne Frank.  Not large, it contained four panes and I suppose it passed the muster test.  I proudly pointed to it to those who would listen and proclaimed my construction success.

But I probably could have done a lot more in my acting and/ or set building career.  I just didn't put out the effort.  Anymore than I did in school.  I was there for socialization.  But I was even haphazard in that.

It was more that I was there for the moment.  I could never get my rhythm or balance.  Whether shooting pool or shooting the breeze, I just didn't as the New Christie Minstrels sang, "give a hank".

Which inspired this poem about looking back.

I built a door
To cover my heart
Not too sturdy, not too transparent.

I put in place a beautiful brass colored shiny kickplate.
But when I finished, I left the portal ajar.

I recognized the scuffed bootprint you left,
But I don't know if you were coming or leaving.

It's  ok if you don't like it.  I'm not sure I do, or if I was able to communicate the nebulous cloud I walked in during those years.

May they bring a clearer picture to Amelia.