John Calvin Hughes

Ladrón

By John Calvin Hughes

When you decide to rob the girls’ school,
you cut the cord off your hair dryer.
It looks like a gun in the waistband
of your pants.  It pokes but you feel pretty
confident about it.  Girls crouch
in the halls as you pass,
breaking their crayolas
under their skirts, ducking
their heads tornado drill fashion.
You feel dangerous
and buss the headmistress
boldly on the bosom
when you take her purse.
Somehow your shoes
have gotten soaked
and you squish
down the hall looking
for a door out.  The hair
dryer has slipped uncomfortably
in your pants, making
your stride something of a limp. Fearing
permanent injury you
pull down your trousers
and grope for the dryer.
At the head of the stairs you stumble
over your cuffs, grab
at the banister,
but fall headlong
down hard stone steps.
You’ve lost the purse
but what the heck? There’s
a red exit
sign ahead and you’re
going for it: the bell
rings and the hall
seethes with girls.
No one is as tall
as you.