He was cracked out of days
Kept as snow globes.
Playing off key
To the sterile sounds
Of pens squeezed between flushed white palms
And bug-eyed teachers chewing on
Stale Charles Darwin and anatomy.
I could see tufts of his bowl cut hair
Appear minutes after the bell.
Soaked. Fuming fingers
Combing through black tufts
Tinted car windows.
He tosses an apology like a greeting card
But now it’s a pile, so his only duty is to
Philosophical musings are paper cranes
Caught and licked until it is
Fleshed, pearl smooth.
I notice his lacey socks,
Furrowed eyebrows, how
The dimly-lit projector
Dissolves his arms and face
A refuge for the drowsy,
But an uncharted sky for his cranes
To set sail.
Malvika (17) believes that crafting words requires patience. The night is her refuge and poetry is one avenue to spill her thoughts. She is part of her schoolís debate team and is an apt reader of The New York Times.