Expulsion

I’ve alphabetized my bookshelf,
learned the foxtrot and the tango,
been taught fifty-three words in Chinese,
and my room has never been cleaner.

I’ve been drunk for two weeks,
—twenty plus shots most nights—
won a painting of a tiger in an arm-wrestling contest,
and danced with the most beautiful girl.

I’ve talked to my parents,
Dad called me an ass,
warned me not to tell anyone.
But Mom just cried.

I’m looking at the wet faces on this bus,
kids left for too long in the rain,
bent double under the weight of forty pounds
of books and notes and planners.

My backpack hardly weighs anything:
Just a fifth of rum,
some thin readmission forms,
and a coupon for a haircut.

2007?