I seal up the mouth and buckle my brogues,
Then rush south over the perforated ground.
Microorganisms crumple under the weight as
“The Sun” aligns its soles beneath hurried feet.
Amidst the blue mass, birds gracefully glide,
Machines fly by with their whirring hearts.
Zebras run over the crossing at high speed,
As colored men flash us along “The Curry Mile.”
Through the cast-iron gate, we stroll in late.
Two lions sit dumb at the entrance, faking roars.
My friends depart for Art down the musty corridors.
Art? I am barred, so I enter the Common Room.
Touché swings a rubber bat after Beadle.
Jerome cracks balls with his thin wooden cue,
By the mega window overlooking the school fields,
Thick girls bogle to the stereo’s tune.
The ping-pong ball smashes beyond the player’s reach.
I chase it, not a problem, then lo and behold!
The stitching rips loose, and the girls point,
“Aaahhh! My brogues rap the vocals to the ragga beat.”
Mother bought them not for me to talk in.
That’s why I seal them up in the morning.
But all afternoon, they collect subtle dust,
I am choking in Mr. War’s woodwork class.
The fat lady rings the ding-dong at four.
I stealthily journey to Halle Square on heels,
And, ducking the wide eye of Big Brother’s view,
“Shh!” Up my sleeve slips a tube of super glue.