She was rhythm with ringlets
inside denim leggins
mischievous and head-on bold
eyes lined in black noir
hot sauce on a stormy night.
“What’s that sub’s name, Miss Brussel Sprouts?”
No, Miss Tight Pants
Instead I composed a direct, curt smile.
Drifting from side to side in
a room of square desks in rows
defined by a square system
shedding pedagogy like a pit viper
snaking through unsettled territory
“Know what he’s got in here? This is where he keeps the bodies…”
She fingers the lock on a gray metal cabinet, the corners of her mouth lifting,
“No, seriously Bro, he puts the bodies in here….”
She is on the No Fly List
Forty-five minutes, penned up in class
That’s a lot
Her mind fizzes
the sunlight skirts through the windows
bathing her in exuberance
“How many years you been a sub?”
Enough to learn to like brussel sprouts
I meet her the next day down the hall
wild curls flyin’
“I got ISS again,” she calls to me
I shake my head
They simply aren’t equipped
to handle her.
She shuffles to the back.