There’s something comical
about the way she parks,
haphazard into bushes as tardy bells toll
and authorities fabricate detention fantasies.
Cadence of subwoofer beats numbingly
hard-metal tunes and butterfly fumes;
she taps chipped-nail exasperated on
the steering wheel, savoring the sound drug.
There’s something ironic
about the way her runner legs gap
over the dusted potholes
as she shoves bug-eyed Coach sunglasses
up the ridge of her celebrity nose.
Tugs absentmindedly at a skirt with ideas of its own,
purse-lipped, and ignorant hands
tremble over weathered Calculus pages, fading yellow
and disintegrating their papery reasoning into integrals.
Ankles stalk their knobby-kneed city alien,
in crimson dead-hide heels,
over a bumblebee catwalk:
Yellow, asphalt, yellow, asphalt, yellow to a fault.
Fashion mob iconic, shouldering handbag shields,
the pink lipstick stuffed next to Literature notes, and
her leather jacket an armor against society’s disease.
She slips suspiciously into trailer classrooms,
late enough for an entrance, early enough for the instance,
pulling out the mind-feed for another day--
To beckon all the dreams her way.