Typing in Blackwood Forest!
Students agog:
Teacher seated with laptop propped
in Blackwood Forest
(posh name for scattered trees)
on lichened, rustic picnic tabletop –
Duchamp sculpture? Hmmmm,
perhaps... ROPP?
Repeat Offender Prevention Program?
Mmmmm, yup,
for she's flaunty-flopped in school grounds,
scoffing some kinda glop –
typing up – effing knows what?
What?
Daunted legs falter, then stop.
What... YOU doin' here, in OUR spot? Mouth four
goldfish faces, horror-struck.
Doan teachers hava flippin' staffrooms, wot?
Titillated,
a little shocked, they chew cud, take stock
as rolling-eyed herd will when strange object pops
into paddock, is conjured, mystical.
Nervous, yet irrepressibly curious, they fidget,
ache to walk further forward, to protest,
to challenge.
Instead, they snort, reconnoitre,
then sissy-stamp – There! We register defiance.
Not 'fraid, no way – but...
eyes weft to un-teacher-ed table, left.
Let's go there, they huff,
where we cannot be... overheard
and then we c'n stuff around (undeterred).
Off they strut, swear, clown, flirt, flummox, fart,
demarcate borders, plot, posture, vocalise, signpost,
do all but mark scent let's keep it decent).
Meanwhile, inoffensive Insurgent
calmly continues, undented
in verdant t-shirt and cooling sunnies,
she smiles
....................and types.................and types.
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