By Lowell Jaeger
Like minnows through reeds, two mischievous girls
slip out the open doorway, splitting the slant
rays of sun, scattering to either side
little whirlpools of dust and floating air.
They poke at me with my rules sharpened
backwards, skipping class now, craving like a drug
the raw taste of rebellion, sniggering as the john door
closes behind them, uncorking their riotous joy.
I sit at my desk, unperturbed, a bespectacled walrus,
reading the masters, pages of lessons I’ve still to learn.
Wishing my pen might pursue and capture
a poem of my own red-handed on the page.
The two return boldly. The classroom sniffs
and shuffles, then settles down.
Did he say anything, one whispers to another. No,
says the other. But he’s writing something. In his books.
Copyright 2020 Jaeger