Rhyme Schemer (9 page)
Authors: K.A. Holt
Two more weeks' detention.
In the library.
Not expelled!
But I'm on THIN ICE
Hartwick says. His favorite thing to say.
And I totter, in my head, on the brink
of a lake paved with icy poems cracking under
my feet.
YOUNG MAN
Purple veins pulse to get my attention.
LAST CHANCE
Fingers shake at me.
OUT OF HERE
Mrs. Little stands and so I do, too.
THIN ICE
Repeated
Ringing in my ears
Thin ice
Thin ice
Thin ice
As a side note,
I have composed an ode
to Hartwick's tie:
[Clearing throat noise here]
O, Principal's tie
You make me want to scream
Because you are the color of
Puked-up Neapolitan ice cream
Why did Mrs. Little have to tell?
Her eyes seem to like me.
Her ears seem to hear me.
Why would she want me in trouble?
Maybe she's lonely
in the big library
all by herself.
Maybe she needs company.
I don't really mind being here, though.
Even if she stares at me
with her hieroglyph eye.
There are no sabotaged water fountains
in the library.
I tried to explain better
about everything.
It will probably backfire
again.
I ripped this one out of a book
from home.
She makes me explain what I meant.
So I do.
You've got yourself in a bind, then
.
She looks at me over her glasses.
I nod.
Just tell him you've been caught, Kevin
.
His Poetry Bandit machinations can go no further
.
I don't know what that means.
Except that she still doesn't understand.
My hand on the door,
it vibrates with the robot murder noises.
The KEEP OUT sign shakes a little, too.
Today I yell into my invisible microphone:
Rumbling, stumbling, fumbling, crumbling
but there is nowhere to go
.
I've become easy prey
and there is nowhere to go
.
Go! Go! Go! Go!
Go! Go! Go! Go!
But I've become easy prey
and there is nowhere to go
â
The door yanks open, Petey is sweaty,
his eyes black arrows, stabbing at my face.
Get away from my door
you creeper
.
Hey man
,
the one friend says,
the guy who looks like all the rest of them.
His rhymes are kind of maybe not half bad
.
Petey's hand goes to the middle of my chest,
his palm against my shirt.
He pushes.
I stumble back.
Get out of here, turd!
And he slams the door.
But I smile.
Because I'm kind of maybe not half bad.
398 GR
This is the section for fairy tales.
Not the section for a random photocopied page
flittering around
making a mess.
I take the loose page to the trash,
but then I see
the page has the word
“wolf”
circled in red.
Like an invitation.
I put my poem on a shelf
with the poetry books.
Hopefully Mrs. Little will find it there.
Properly shelved.
And maybe she will understand.
I
On my desk this morning,
a familiar page
copied from a familiar notebook
about a familiar topic
having to do with a familiar mole
on a familiar teacher's face.
II
ON EVERY DESK,
a familiar page
copied from a familiar notebook
about a familiar topic
having to do with a familiar mole
on a familiar teacher's face.
III
On Robin's moth face,
a familiar look
copied from a familiar face
I used to see in a familiar mirror
when I was stuffing a familiar someone
under the familiar sinks.
IV
Stolen a page from your own book, hmm?
That was Mrs. Smithson.
She actually said it.
In her familiar voice.
Out loud.
Before she grabbed most of the papers
and recycled them.
