Robert Lee Kendrick

A stinkbug knocks its shell   
against a classroom storm   
window and screen,  
inches away from a boy   
burdened by history,   
who lays his uncombed  
head on the State's approved  
book, closes his eyes, waits   
for Monday's first pink slip  
to rustle over the desk.   
Black metal diesel fugues   
curl in his head, overtones   
marbling bug wing fundamentals,  
small engine drones, 
as maintenance men drive  
mowers on practice fields, forcing  
black snakes deeper in clay,  
yellow jackets to drop  
their barbed patience,  

lash smoke-streaked air.   

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