You know that year there was a private toilet
in the classroom? Not many schools had that.
Girls wore dresses then, sometimes even at play
but always, always at school.
You had to pull down your tights and undies,
let them pool around your ankles—honestly,
so absurd—then gather your petticoat
and the folds of your skirt
up around your waist and sit.
Your Mary Janes dangled.
Your feet didn’t even touch the floor.
So there you sat, ridiculous as a monkey
with a cigarette, and THEN
somebody knocks on the door.
There wasn’t any screen in front of the little toilette.
When you opened the door, the whole white throne
exposed itself to the room. I can’t imagine
who designed such a thing.
But the day I was holding court,
well, privately holding court,
somebody knocked on the door.
I’m there in all my dangling Mary Janes glory,
but I have a bigger problem.
I don’t know what to say.
I don’t mean that a range of options
presented itself for consideration.
I mean no one ever told me how to respond
when you’re sitting in a semi-public bathroom—
a single-stall semi-public bathroom—
and someone knocks.
I just couldn’t think of a thing to say.
So Jimmy Felding opened the door,
thinking the room unoccupied.
He stared. I stared.
Jimmy’s the one who spoke.
“Oh! Excuse me!”
It was like the time I was late for my performance
in the school play. Mama dropped me off,
and I ran down the hall clutching my costume
and the sheet music I’d marked in blue ink.
I hear a voice behind me. “Is this yours?”
I turn. A fella is holding up
a white crinoline petticoat.
They’re the kind which make your skirts
stand out like an upside-down tipi.
A boy was waving my petticoat high in the air,
some beribboned flag of surrender.
My petticoat was in his hand.
I believe I tossed my curls. I said,
“Nope. Not mine.”
He looked astounded.
But then, so did I.
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