Jennifer Goble

Poem Revision

Under Where?

 

With the sound of flags whipping in the wind,

the pupils fluff their sheets

and prepare for peaceful rest.

They cozy onto their mats.

The crispness of Bounce permeates the air.

I float throughout the room,

bidding the students “Sweet Dreams.”

 

As I round the corner, I catch a glimpse of you.

I stop—frozen in shock.

You lie there motionless

on the cold tile floor.

My body cannot move.

I am a statue.

 

Thousands of thoughts race through my mind.

How did you arrive here? Is this a bad joke?

You do not belong here!

I rapidly consider how to take care of the situation.

Slyly, I move toward you,

grabbing you and shoving you into my pocket,

all in one fluid motion.

I close my eyes and inhale,

disgusted with these actions,

pondering your future.

 

What do I do?

I cannot cause a commotion.

The kids will unravel.

Stunned by the situation,

I dash for the class bathroom.

 

Uneasily, I call for assistance.

I inform the gathered individuals

of my discovery,

yying there all alone

and so out of place.

Forming a circle, looking to me as the ring leader,

and leaving the kids in oblivion,

all eyes are on me.

Their eyes widen and mouths open

as shock settles in.

“It,” I exclaim, pointing,

“was under there!”

“Under where?” they respond.

I hang my head.

Silent laughter bursts through my body.

I pluck you, using a crab-like grip

of only my index and thumb

from your cove in my pocket.

Seeing you, the onlookers

gasp, extracting all of the air from the room.

 

You lack so much of the foundation

that makes you what you are.

Your anatomy takes us all by surprise.

A narrow strand of risqué lace and delicate rhinestones,

you cause us to blush.

Everyone cracks up

at the mere thought of you

in such a foreign location. 

 

Since you prefer

dark and desolate places,

we send you to your final resting place.

No longer will you have to be

stuck in the middle.

You are free . . . in the classroom garbage.