When your life is seduced by an attractive punk high on poetry you get him expelled and save yourself. Reject his wavy hair. Ignore the sinuous body. Ignore the pliant mouth discussing Yusef Komunyakaa in your office. The door propped open. The poetic punk arguing that one's clouded reflection cannot eye itself as a bird of prey.
Springtime, the season of re-creation. Just this morning you noticed tulips and daffodils coming up in the yard. Tiny buds dotting the branches of the crape myrtle you planted seven years ago, the year Kaylee was born. You have a flowerbox full of fledgling daisies. You watched Kaylee water them before you (the good mother) drove her to school.
“Bye, bye, sweetheart. Love you!”
“Love you, Mom! Bye!”
The phone rings. The principal. She stumbles over words as you did the first time you were late home from work and your husband asked where you had been. “A long meeting,” you mumbled. Which wasn't really a lie. Not strictly speaking.
“Just making sure you're still here,” the principle says. “I need to speak with you. Ten minutes.”
Students slide past your window, pause on the cement walk. A stocky boy greets a tall, skinny kid. “Hey,” the stocky boy says. Both boys have shaved heads and pierced eyebrows and ears.
They lean against a wall, open a pack of cigarettes. Light up. A scrungy girl, wearing jeans and a tank top slinks toward the boys. She has multiple piercings too.
“Hey,” says the girl. She is smiling brightly. Her lips look red as a wound.
“Hey,” say the boys. The stocky one blows smoke in the girl's face.
You see her turn away and swipe at the air. You cannot see whether she is pissed or amused.
They start down the walkway, away from your window. The scrungy girl and skinny kid are holding hands, laughing. She stops him, leans into his shoulder, mouth rising to meet his mouth. You watch their tongues dueling. His hand cups her ass, moves between her legs. She squeals and grabs him between his legs, squeezes and says, “You're happy to see me.” One more kiss before they resume walking. The stocky boy is ahead of the groping couple.
“Hold up, Gary,” the skinny kid calls out.
“Let him go,” says the girl.