Protracting school.

I like how you protract going to school

by painting your toenails. You shove

balled-up napkins in between your big

and second toes. After ten minutes

of generous strokes, you throw your legs

onto the table, curl your toes and say

ladybugs, pointing at the black spots.

It's raining. The window

above the sink is leaking into a potted

orange tree that never bares fruit.

Before you throw on a pair of sweatpants

and walk ten blocks without an umbrella

to a lecture, the ladybugs on your feet

will fly to the window and shake their

antennae at the pooling water.

I imagine you stopping on your way to school.

There will be a group standing

beneath an umbrella, rolling the smoke

from cigarettes from their lips. 

People will talk about their toes

and what insects their toes look like.

You'll grab a long straw connected 

to a box of wine on the hood

of a green Nissan, and suck warm

red into your body as rain rolls

from the chute of the umbrella.