The Middle-School  Mafia


The paid security guards

duck for cover

as the mini-syndicate struts by in unison

decked in studied bouncer black and blue

with smirking kissers and cockscomb coifs

scanning their effect through anonymous shades


A chorus of  Disneyesque ditties

sounds doings dire.

The little clique of steel-toed teddy bears

checks each pooping pager

and quickly huddles in covert conference


When the coast is clear

the Big 8th Gang

yawns and swaggers into class

to bivouac in the back row.

With zippered lips

they slide-ooze-slouch into their desks

asserting Territorial Imperative…

then to ponder the meaning of life…

and to calculate the minutes

before the big meeting


at Baskins Robbins