gloss and chaos

the fire drills the glue the iron gray stairwells
the mimeographs of poems smeared blue from tears
you and i hiding in the back of class aware
of what terror could occur right there with a pointer
or downtown with the pumped-up weekend marchers
the rag-tag adults we wanted so to be
but came to see as ruthless in their grasp
hobbled by the hammer of their conceits

now alive in a season of full captivity
thursdays noted for fat newspapers
fatter with extra sections that will
never address the iceblock cold
nerves stretched tight as wire
so much effort to hold bitterness at bay
in the silence that crushes any thought
that a song we loved might still somehow matter