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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=577977" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Real Work Begins</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=577977" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">I enjoy the irony of not being taken out to dinner, <br>For writing bad poetry, and getting<br>Away with it: And when the leggy substitute drops<br>Like a bombshell into the room, to watch movies<br>For the rest of the period, <br>And notice the canopy of her interior skeleton<br>Heave like a buxomy pink tarp as she sits at<br>The head of the class, inhaling, flickering her temporary<br>Eyes over the rows of boys.<br>They lick their lips like suburban wolves as she<br>Crosses her legs and her long-distance calves<br>Flex: She exhales and it smells like rum, from<br>What the pirates have done to her: <br>I don’t care, I still want her, and contemplate<br>Asking her to prom, or abducting her on the way<br>Out to her car, and thank god this isn’t math, or<br>I wouldn’t know what to do; but now I have a plan, <br>And I doodle a map on the desk, which spills like<br>A silkworm’s womb onto my hand, a pubescent jig-saw<br>The Mexican lady will wipe clean over night, <br>Doing away with the graffiti of my memory, as I ride<br>The bus back into my carefully orchestrated habitat, <br>And the real work begins....</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Bret+R.+Crabrooke">Bret R. Crabrooke</a></strong></div>