People

“Let’s gather by the piano, people,”
“Time for milk, people,”
“People, settle down for naptime,”
Miss Hayes told us kindergartners.

We were 4 or 5, away from Mommy
For the first time, on the cork floor
Of the sunny room on the south end
Of the school, where Miss Hayes

Struggled to stay queen bee as she
Thickened into her seventies and depended
more than ever on her flask of gin.

“People,” which she had learned
From a mentor at Oswego and carried
With her south to Westchester County,

Was what she called us collectively
Though individually she knew our names:
Kathy and Jimmy and Sue and Tommy,

Mostly Protestants, a few Catholics,
And a Jew or two, and all white,
All destined to grow into older people,

Even other people, as we married
And took our husbands’ names
Or earned titles like “professor,”

“the reverend,” or “CEO.” Some
Moved away, some stayed in town,
Some barely stayed in touch.

But we all remember long-dead
Miss Hayes calling, cooing, cajoling
Us: “People, it’s time. People, it’s time.”