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.