There’s something comical

about the way she parks, 

haphazard into bushes as tardy bells toll

         and authorities fabricate detention fantasies.

Cadence of subwoofer beats numbingly

hard-metal tunes and butterfly fumes;

she taps chipped-nail exasperated on 

the steering wheel, savoring the sound drug.

There’s something ironic

about the way her runner legs gap

over the dusted potholes

as she shoves bug-eyed Coach sunglasses

up the ridge of her celebrity nose.

Tugs absentmindedly at a skirt with ideas of its own,

purse-lipped, and ignorant hands

tremble over weathered Calculus pages, fading yellow

and disintegrating their papery reasoning into integrals.

Ankles stalk their knobby-kneed city alien,

in crimson dead-hide heels,

over a bumblebee catwalk:

Yellow, asphalt, yellow, asphalt, yellow to a fault.

Fashion mob iconic, shouldering handbag shields,

the pink lipstick stuffed next to Literature notes, and

her leather jacket an armor against society’s disease.

She slips suspiciously into trailer classrooms,

late enough for an entrance, early enough for the instance,

pulling out the mind-feed for another day--

To beckon all the dreams her way.