Each day the no-name boy
read to me, his new teacher.
I'd met kids like him before—
worn-out clothes, pale skin,
dad in jail, younger siblings,
mom frazzled.
No-names never stuck around
long enough to be remembered.
The reading teacher had
no time for him, even though
he was eight years old
and reading like he was six.
We'd meet for ten minutes.
He'd read a page, I'd read a page.
I had no plan, since he'd be
leaving soon, wouldn't he?
It seemed a miracle when
the words started flowing.
Book in hand, face aglow,
he'd sit beside my desk,
turn to page one, and take off.
I was just along for the ride.
Before I knew it,
the memo arrived.
He is moving to Florida.
Prepare a report card.
"________ has made great progress
in Reading this quarter."
He cried and told me I was
the best teacher he'd ever had.
If that was true,
I could do a lot better.
And I did, thanks to a boy
whose name I forget.
