BLACKBOARD/BLACKBIRD JUNGLE
by Tom Lyford
My hush puppies propped up between
the mountains of uncorrected essays and
paperbacks, a desk on the brink of avalanche—
two minutes and counting till Pavlov’s bell
tolls for me, thee, for period three, and this
free-period reverie: gazing out the window upon
legions of sparrows flocking, and doing what
sparrows do: pecking out free-lunch livings like
lilies of the field who toil not… and me conned
into this To Sir With Love scam, wondering
how a goddamn field lily feels anyway. When
flocks of blackbirds roll in en masse like
jack-booted Hells Angels rumbling into
Weir’s Beach, spreading the black stain of
Biker Week to roust these pathetic, tweedy,
little checker-breasted and pocket-protectored
peaceniks in a scene right out of The Wild One…
and suddenly bells harangue the halls, my door
slams wide open, and I too am rousted by my
all-male period-four easy riders, birds of a
uniform feather in sleeveless Levi jacket-vests
with ‘EXILES’ stamped boldly in bad-ass biker
font across the backs and reeking reefer madness...
all those pockets nested with stems and seeds…
