They are my students,
the young, with
the young’s trite pack,
and because they see
themselves, I suppose,
as secret
and sophisticated,
I can watch
from my window.
They’re sixteen,
already puffing too long
to stop,
but in this context,
they tug their elbows
and suck.
I too,
and thought my mother
did not know.
Then one strange day I quit
as if my body said
enough.
Soon they will return
to my classroom
to write
their stale little stories,
the dragging in
to draw out.
by Lois Marie Harrod
Lois Marie Harrod used to smoke cigarettes, but upon learning she was pregnant, began to smoke words, four books, two children and five chapbooks of words, the latest of which, Furniture, was easier to burn than Part of the Deeper Sea.
www.loismarieharrod.com
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