All That Remains Understood

All That Remains Understood

The day I gave up teaching

To become a youth camp director

The step I always skip

Because the porch is rotting

The tree I touch each Tuesday and Thursday As I walk by

at exactly 7:24 a.m.

The student I always mistook

For my high school valedictorian

The junk shop I meant to browse

But never have

The travel mug I fill again and again

Without ever washing

The grout between the tiles

At the foot of my toilet

The one hair I pluck every other week

From my right ear

The letter I saved

That said my tenure was denied

The half can of green spray paint that hits the pavement

Each time I open the door of my pickup

The cactus I water

That seems always poised to fall

The picture of my high school buddy Mark

That I still carry in my wallet

The fine scratches on the face

Of the only guitar I ever bought new

The Star Trek communicator I keep

In the top drawer of my desk

The "Jeep" hat I wear

Whenever I don't have time to shower

The coffee beans I can only buy

When I'm visiting my favorite coffee house in South Dakota

The office in which I spent long hours

Just across the hall from Vince and Amy, who still teach

The boots I always thought were real leather

But, as it turns out, aren't

The side of the bed

I sleep on

The side of the bed My wife

sleeps on

The sides on which we both

Lie awake

The maple my friend, Kirk

Is buried under

The doctoral degree in its red-leather folding case (fake—the leather, that is)

On top of a box of books in my garage

The antlers of the deer my grandfather shot

Sitting atop the same box

The article, The Writing Center: An Essential Element of the Teacher Training Program,

Upon which I collaborated with two colleagues and never finished

The poems I left unwritten, the songs I left unsung And this

one.