Noel Sloboda

She brought the old playground with her
to the front of the classroom,
on the lookout for Ronny Trickle,
who gummed her hair in ’82, then years later
felt up her sister in a limo, before prom.
Chalk screamed while she scrawled standards
across the board. Groans were barely suppressed.
Then someone slipped. “What about extensions?”
It was just blurted out; the hand shot up—
an afterthought—too slowly.
Her eyes flared, moved a half-second
more quickly than the rest of her,
and finally she faced them.

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