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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