Young Love in an Old Climate

Mrs. Frey, ageing supply teacher,

Tuts, through her disgruntled coalition of teeth.

Her lips part like sisters who never got along.

She controls the gas.

Poppy is turning 16 as she holds the base of the Bunsen burner.

The blue flame and its consistent growl, cools, as she cuts off it’s oxygen.

It turns it into a solitary candle.

Adjusting her un-tinted glasses,

She blows it out.

But declines to wish,

For no longer will she stay silent, in or out, of science classes.

The weary lesson turns into the home straight.

But chemistry,

It’s just getting started.

He gestures outside to the gleaming grasses, she looks,

He knows where her heart is.

While she spies a cocksure fox,

whose nose and tail are both set skyward,

Like snobs who’ve turned their backs on each other.

He hands her his feelings,

And writes “Happy Birthday ” with an indelible marker.

“Keep that pen” she says,

“It’s just what I am after”

Tomorrow, under their own steam, they’ll march,

Becoming their own masters.

Tonight, all night, they’ll fuck,

And unsettle the rafters.

On awakening they’ll make love,

And as they fall,

Among their new signs and laughter.

They know the world has changed,

We must help them with the answers.

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