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First Published in Eskimo Pie.

Heads rose, necks craned, and eyes blinked

like strange birds in a saltwater marsh.

And with her hand raised high, she spoke

with inflection and purpose of cats’ paws and fog.

 

And they, they dreamed of fast cars and poodle skirts

and 45 rpm’s. And Jimmy Reeves, Buddy Holly

and Elvis on the air. And the game and the date or

the hoped for call that’d maybe never come.

 

Her voice softened as she turned the page and read on.

Eyelids drooped, heads tottered, all supplicants to the

stifling heat that oozed about the room. Unstirred they sat as

colonies of beads snaked down necks in a silver-lined chorus.

 

Unfazed by rhymes foisted on them, and

lost in the stigma of a summer school daze,

their faces remained in Easter Island repose.

“What could it mean…..does anyone know?”

 

“This next one by Keats is a particular favorite….

can anyone recognize the meter?”

May the gods of time sweep us out with the morning tide.

“Now class, tomorrow’s assignment….”

 

Heads rose and eyes saucered as hormones

bounced like bees in a fresh field of blooms.

A breeze to third gear, and vibes on the dial,

a Coke float at the curb and a fast dance tonight !

 

Feet shuffled amid squeals that echoed down the halls,

engines revved and horns blew, and wheels chirped

as memories of the morning disappeared in the dust

of the old county school.