ROBIN
D. HUDECHEK
Window in Blue
He
is chosen for the smallest desk,
the
one with the wobbly front leg
that
taps the floor
as
his crayon touches the paper,
a
thin line, each square precise
as
it arches into the roof. His houses
are
always blue, the people
drawn
with weighty heads, legs taller
than
the bodies and smiles
which
cut across the circles
with
nonexistent noses.
He
watches the snow gather
in
the corners of the window pane
and
carefully re-buttons his denim jacket.
The
last wall is a thread,
kindergartners
who tumble outdoors, scarves flying.
There
is no one to climb the rocket ship.
Its
bars, coated in ice,
attract
no hanging bodies, no boys
to
shove him under the door.
His
knees scrape the cement and his hands
slide
against broken glass. The sky is white,
whiter
than the teacher’s blouse.
“Sit
still, Tommy.” His crayon rips the
paper,
leaves
the last wall dangling,
piercing
a yellow cloud. He draws a few spokes,
pine
trees on the hill following deer tracks
away
from the house, away from the classroom
with
its long division and turning pages.
No comments:
Post a Comment