The first things Ayden is taught
in school is there are a dozen
desks between his and the door
and the best route to take in a sprint
to the hall outside is serpentine,
making for a harder target,
and his shoelaces, if poorly tied,
could kill him as he runs, and the Uzi
the teacher wears on her hip is an
imprecise weapon, so he must dive
to the floor if she draws a bead on
an intruder, and the bullet-proof vest
his mother cinched him into before
he boarded the school bus is not really
bulletproof to armor-piercing ammo
and could snag on the window frame
were he to try to escape in that direction
and a little blood smeared on the forehead
might fool a shooter into moving on to
the next child and of course to pray,
pray hard, as he hides, for prayer is
the only weapon he will be armed with
until the fourth grade when his hands
will finally be large enough to handle
the elementary school version of
the Glock .22 issued along with his
schoolbooks, and after that,
there’ll be no excuses.
About the Poem
Ohio has streamlined the arming of teachers and school employees, leaving only the students without sidearms. For the moment.
About the Author
Tom Barlow is an Ohio writer of poetry, short stories, and novels. His work has appeared in journals including Trampoline, Ekphrastic Review, Voicemail Poetry, Hobart, Tenemos, Redivider, The North Dakota Quarterly, The New York Quarterly, The Modern Poetry Quarterly, and many more. See more at tombarlowauthor.com.
Very clever and timely dark humor. I believe the last line should be “there’ll.”