The Lesson
When I was three, I stuck a hairpin.
Into the light socket. Flames ran up my arm.
I screamed and screamed.
As we sped to the doctor, my mother wailed,
“What were you thinking?” I wondered myself.
The soft white bandage was a symbol.
When I was 10, I fell from the roof.
I was almost naked. I had a sprained ankle
But was otherwise unhurt. My mother said,
“What were you thinking?” I didn’t know.
I thought I’d found a way to get a tan
Almost all over, but I fell asleep.
She said it again in other instances.
Of selfishness, stupidity, or greed.
There was the car accident, the Christmas punch
That made us all puke, the stolen whiskey,
The moldy wet library books,
The F in civics. I learned the lesson.
Now 83, I look around today.
At my once loved, now battered, ruined country.
Around me, shreds of decency, morality,
Respect, justice, fair play, trodden in mud.
And I want to say to you, my countrymen,
WHAT. WERE. YOU. THINKING?
Janet McCann is a poet.
The Marbled Sigh 