In junior high, my biology 
and English teachers are courting. 
They pass notes back and forth 
during classes, using students 
as couriers. Mr. F. is ethnic, 
stocky, dark, and swarthy—
a sexy beast stalking 
the corridors—and Miss S., 
raven-haired, rail-thin, 
has the biggest boobs 
I’ve ever seen. Their passion 
permeates the building—
a long, brick box with beige 
linoleum and tan lockers, 
holding pen for teens and 
their wardens. I’m often chosen 
to carry their notes—maybe 
because I sit in front, due to 
alphabetical order, or maybe 
because I’m trustworthy. 
I could easily unfold the paper 
and peek, but I don’t—though 
I’m tempted, hesitating in 
the stairwell. At the classroom 
door, I knock and enter, walk 
straight to the teacher’s desk. 
Everyone knows what’s up. 
The lesson stops, and the kids 
titter while the secret message 
is devoured. Sometimes a reply 
is scrawled and passed back, 
other times I’m dismissed
with a wave. I feel sorry 
when it’s a wave. We’re all 
rooting for them.
                        

A handyman at assisted living 
finally fixed her TV. Now 
she’s glued to it, watching 
the Australian Open—
a ritual that jogs her memory. 
In the 60s, Down Under 
broadcast a call for teachers 
and professionals to emigrate. 
She tried to convince my father. 
“It was a no go,” she says. 
“There was no GO!” 
 
I know this story by rote.
Usually, it ends in blame 
and bitterness—today,
she’s feeling magnanimous. 
“We didn’t have that adventure. 
But there were others.” 
My dad hated travel, 
turned desert hermit, 
let her fend for herself.
Since his death, she’s prone 
to seismic reversals.
And her day gets better— 
Federer’s a contender.
 
A strange peace descends 
when I press End Call. 
Somehow, for the first time, 
I know I’ll be all right.
                        

Driving at dark after tai chi class, 
I make a California stop on the deserted road—
when a police car, lying in wait behind 
the oleanders, nabs me as I make a left turn. 
You blazed right through that stop sign! 
You didn’t stop at all! That’s not quite true—
I slowed almost to a stop—but I hold 
my tongue. Where are you coming from? 
Where are you going? Home, I say. 
I was at the retreat center doing tai chi. 
WHAT? Tai chi. He’s never heard of it. 
He keeps asking and I keep saying. 
Finally I blurt, TAI CHI. It’s a martial art! 
He shuts up, stares long and hard, 
then lets me go—no ticket, no warning. 
I’m a clumsy practitioner at best, 
but that moment of victory was sweet.