The Delinquent Wall

It hurts me sad,
now,
thinking of it
Miss Fellows
Our new young English teacher
Twenty minutes into her first lesson
On her first day
Lacking the confidence to talk over the ghetto of
Children strangling each other
Cutting words into their forearms
Holding up the centre spread of a porn mag;
or The Girls:
padding out their bra's with pages ripped from Shakespeare.

And it aggravates tears,
now,
imagining how alone she felt
Staring out across some of the Inner City's worst problems
Sipping from a coffee we'd all dropped a dollop full of gob into
Then opening her brown leather clip bag
And being hit by the combustible stench
of a child's greenish
semi-solid
malnutritioned shit
Which I had strained into it during lunch hour.

She recoiled in horror
Her face hung with grief
Her hands up to about her ears
Like that famous screaming painting
Now frozen and facing the class
Our strict attention,
now,
all hers
Watching as she cracked
As her tears and noises rolled out
And rebounded
Off A nightmarish wall of hysterical juvenile deliquency:
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Jason Cotton laughing so hard that he farted and fell off his chair

For some reason
thiking of that,
now,
makes me terribly, terribly sad.

(I think)