A Bad Poem About the Past and Nerves

We were nervous
watching the teacher tell
our parents about us
in class; we watched
through the door
from the safe, sterile hall.

Were we well behaved,
and what would they say
about our grades, and
did we pay enough attention?

Were we right enough,
had we known enough
of the right answers to
show that we had read
and that we had studied?

I get nervous now
when I hear yelling
or crying, especially women,
and I don't remember much
of school or childhood.
I don't remember much
of anything then.