1969 Part III

by

Doug Larson

After the adrenaline rush
there is an almost melancholic calm;
a free open space that for me, allowed fear
to seep in.
Slowly.
Torturously.
When I was called to the principal’s office
in the middle of class
it was almost a relief.
Almost.
One by one we fell
like toppling dominoes
each of us making the dreaded trip.
If we thought we had tight lips
we underestimated the can-opener savvy
of the C.E.O.
He broke us wide open one at a time
alone in that stark wooden chair
across the expanse of his modest desk
forcing us to face
his disapproving stare.
Mothers and Fathers were called
and markers were called in.
The funny thing is that I can remember the crime so well
but I just can’t remember the punishment.
I know it existed.
I remember not being able to ride the bus for a while.
Banned and branded, not as outcasts
as it turned out
but as rebels.
We were all James Deans
Hell on two wheels.
Hell to pay?
That came later.
Much later.
We were the Lost Boys of Rolling Hills
and we were just getting started..

NEXT?
Why don't you look at lifes' celebration
by: Anne Strausser
from: Harrisburg, PA, US

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