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J.R. Solonche

We have all known such boys
in sixth grade. Tall, slim, athletically
built but not an athlete, serious but not
a great reader nor the scientific sort,
the matinee idol profile that drives
the giggly girls, in whom he shows
no interest, crazy (even the high school
girls have a crush on him), yet something
tender, perhaps effeminate about the corners
of the mouth, the cherubic lips, the eyes' long lashes,
the poet who doesn't write poetry but only looks
as though he did, the odd one the other kids
have given up teasing, the loner who has no friends,
who lingers on the edges of things, even in class,
sitting by the window where he can look out
of this world altogether, look out at the crystalline
blue of sky and the clouds, white as shrouds,
and then turn toward his teacher (she too
is secretly in love with him) with an expression
she has seen before only on the faces of runaways.







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