The boy, who is 17, is dragging
a rolling backpack and wearing a red beanie
which covers his sensitive ears that purposefully cusp
thick rectangle glasses held by a strap around the back.
It is Friday, before the Winter break at the local highschool.
I was told the school brought snow to the quad-
and it is sunny, 70 degrees and the ocean is silver on the skyline.
It must not be real snow.
The boy, who is not soon to be a man,
wears running pants, is pigeon toed and shuffles on the sidewalk
sideways as fast as he can drag his backpack and hunched frame along.
He is covered in puffy white foam,
his arms, his butt, his back, like he just jumped out
of the bath, but is trying to get out of himself.
Marching off beat, planting crowded feet down the sidewalk, stomping
I hear-faintly-people scream, Zachary, Zachary, come back here! Zack-get back-
She is late, she is late she's LATE! is all he says
Over and over he chants while rocking himself righteous.
The uniformed school guard is now on his walkie, beeping, Over,
while he smiles wide at him, offering him a treat, but he does not bite
into candy from strangers.
Others come running and reprimanding,
fingers drawn, arms cocked.
She's late, she's late, she's never supposed to be this late!
He flings his words at them,
soaps flies like spit.
He is cursing at her in his way.
But how could she know that there was no snow
They lied, he’ll say.
which is why he was early today
but she was probably going to be late anyway.
Composed 12/19/15.
Image credit By U.S. Air Force photo/Ken Wright/Released [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
