An old man, grizzled, passes by the schoolhouse,

Where students stand defiant, hands at their chins;

Stony, stoned, rebelling

When there is nothing to rebel against.

Not here, anyway, in the town where sprawling fields surround the homes like each one is wearing a ball gown with a long organic train,

And some people feel the need to advertise their habits, in

Bumper stickers

t-shirts

scratchings scrawled across pavement.

It is one such work of illicit art

That catches the old man's attention, so, leaning forward

Takes in with rheumy eyes the tell-tale spread-out leaves,

Fanned like a black jack dealer might hold her cards,

Inviting,

Enticing,

An excuse for something oh-so-secret,

And he ponders the various confectionaries of his youth,

The high-flying sweet-smelling contraband

Smuggled between classes and worked into conversations,

Held like a badge of honor while the proud scent of smoke permeates the air,

Leaving a trail of experience,

Of rebellion,

Of excitement,

Until the wind blows through those empty hallways,

On the weekends when no one is around to hear the stories and like a washer-woman removes all traces of evidence,

Dissipating any smoke that might still cling to lockers

Stairwells

Jackets

Backpacks,

And then there is nothing left.