Oh Marjy Marjy it is thunderstorm black on the walkway side
of Mr. Zastrow's square-tabled physics room but nothing, not
a drop
on the other side of the lab. Just look through those
diamond-shaped
bars on the windows, it is coming down sideways soaking
the covered walkway—we are going to have to dash
to Bonnie's music room. Scott's already reclining
across the piano. And we can't put the yearbook
to bed today, Royce and Jeff are giggling in the darkroom
with Phusi but we won't be able to drive
downtown, there's some kind of parade
on Boulevard du Trente Juin, another holiday,
another— oh look at these senior pictures, remember
tenth grade, everybody wearing Midema floursack
dresses, pants, even the yearbook cover
a Midema floursack.
The rainsquall's over, Marjy, no need to slip
into our Bata flip-flops after all, all
the sunshine is here in the days
of our senior year, we are the big kids, we own
the minutes hours double periods A days B days we own
the years cascading backwards and today this minute Dr. Dave
patrolling, strolling, Kendall and Bit hunched and giggling,
in the brightshine of lunchtime the hostel buses pulling up
to the hardpacked dirt plaza with pans of lasagna, we own
the fainting, braiding, leotard for you and bathing suit for
me
and the smokers behind the student store but not us goody-
goody the hostel days for you me always just a visitor
outside looking
in our long long legs walking us up and down past the
railroad,
the presidential park, the okapis. Every step we take
intertwined
but pulling us apart is ballet, boys, summers, history,
tomorrow,
my body, your body, the things you know and I don't, the
things
I know and you do not. All your quiet competence. Your
prophecies
I hold onto.
