Do not remain center stage.
Any teacher returning to the auditorium
to recover a misplaced 3-ring binder
will see you. I know this may seem evident,
but I’ve witnessed overeager friends
spotlighted in mortifying states of undress —
which should come as no surprise to you lovers
of thespian pursuits.
Drama thrives on such pathetic incident.

Instead, exit stage left,
to the pretense of seclusion
of the chain link prop room,
where you sometimes-sympathetic villains,
torrents of hormones,
unfortunate haircuts painstakingly styled
over fledgling synapses firing like starbursts,
escape
for a blissful thirty-nine minutes
from the Charlie Brown drone of academic prison.

Sigh relief.
Kiss your girlfriend,
finally.

Caress her small breasts through her favorite striped shirt.
Jest you’ll be back soon
and for her to not miss you
too much.
Descend your contrary being
perpendicular to jailbird green
stripes. Cross each
with the tip of your nose (by a mile,
most meaningful of vain rebellions).

Take off your girlfriend’s jeans,
then her panties —
separately.
Just because you’re lying
in precariously secluded wings
of intermitted stages
doesn’t mean you can skip the pleasantries,
doesn’t mean she shouldn’t feel your fingers
trace the bones of her hips, your breath dance
playful whirls along inner thighs.
“How was your day?” ask her softest flesh
and, unconcerned with the answer, promise,
“about
to be
better.”

Kiss your girlfriend
everywhere she begs
for kisses.

Catch and hold each other’s breath.

Wait silently for the vice principal
to escort chastened friends from center stage.
Stare into wanting eyes and smile.
Nuzzle from temple to cheek
to temple. Whisper a truth so secret
none present comprehend its meaning.
Nibble on her earlobe
like an iron-spined god of mischief.

Don’t dare slip back into pants.
The wriggling would draw attention,
and besides, after the principal leaves,
your haven will be restored for a while,
so stare, and smile, and hope,
and hope,
and hope…

On the drive home, cry.
Not out of happiness, nor sadness, nor any emotion
your shoddily-wired, adolescent brain could dream
of parsing. Cry
because you are no longer proximate,
and where you long to be with her does not exist,
not now or ever,
not even in fantasy.