by Ida Griesemer
She could be grumpy, Mrs. Franks.
Her hair was a gray helmut that she wore
inside, but I don't forget the sparkle
in her eye. The year they filled
Her lab with colored globes.
Those artifacts of the first person.
Something must have happened
to the computer-makers.
Some giddy delight in their own
clairvoyance. That made them want
To turn every typing tank into a toy
store. We can do this, they said, know-how
spilling over. We'll make these machines
from inflatable air chairs. We'll put our lips
To the power cord and exhale. They're gonna
blow up. Franks will go nuts. We'll have every
gray hair standing when she reclines
on this furniture. We've been to the future
And we're bringing back lava lamps.
Maybe it was the transparency
that did it for her. Was that it?
She could see right to the guts
of those cheerful medicine balls.
Mario claimed he could teach us typing
but she had ideas about why he couldn't.
The boats were better, she said.
She made us row for our words.
Oh, Mrs. Franks. Some days she was tired.
Some days all she could do was list
everything we didn't know
on the whiteboard. Some days we were rats
And she was a lone scientist.
She was a mechanic.
She taught us about engines, she led the
search. What did we know about spelunking?
Rowing was one thing, but…
I want to tell her,
thanks. I met Google through her.
After class - an accidental facial
expression, a look of interest -
I stumbled into a private lesson.
There are many, she said, But this
is the one I like. A plain page. A baby
name. Another psychic nerd
Playing a joke on the world. Goo
googaga from the mouth of a grown
woman. Eyes really lit this time, drool
clinging to the strap of her helmut.
Thank you, thank you, Mrs. Franks. It was
an important thing for me to know
it turns out.
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