THIS IS NOT POETRY

Out, in the playground

the older, rougher boys

have debagged the school bully

and are kicking him repeatedly

in his stupid head.

I think they should stop now.

He’s already dead.

Here, in the classroom

the other, quieter kids

are doodling on the margins

of their exercise books

or have their arms

protectively round their work.

They ain’t gonna tell you

what it’s all about.

You are supposed to guess

and if you can’t,

well, they are cleverer than you.

They don’t feel the need to

explain it to the rest of the class.

A few are scrawling

grafitti on the toilet wall.

Spelling their names

with fingers dipped in shit.

Some sort

of dirty protest, I suppose.

The teacher has turned her back

on us all to write

something on the blackboard

but nobody’s listening.

I’m just glad I’m not

the prefect in this school.

But me, I’m just looking out the window

wondering why my friend

ain’t at school today

and watching the clouds

roll by with their changing shapes

to see if they look like anything

I could write about.