As I saunter to the copier
I release my biplane and colors.
Yore is fertilized
where there are no high schoolers.
Third grade permits
the sweet lights of the mind
to wither self-consciousness.
I saunter on to the copier
where the nose dive yanks me in, now
spraying bullets across sea-blue tile.
I can’t teach my kids that,
affirms the academic, arrogant,
adding “That battle has passed, oh, yoo-hoo . . ?”
the diseased at Columbine, well, made my shrapnel taboo.
Yet, rat-a-tat-tat . . . my skull is still sprinkled with gunners and ghosts,
and my memory of much has risen.
I’ll take my chances with the dean.
I will still impart
my clouds and colors,
my bullet-ridden biplane.
For, my students of nine
years need gardening of the mind
more than protractors and things.
I see the German insignia in the mist,
but my English chums hone in
on the nefarious green craft.
Tiny dark equal signs, no longer tiny dark equal signs.
Spray, ah, duck!
The blood of the clouds . . I open up my hot barrels:
and I cannot find the copier.