The Snowball Dance

The old gym is gussied up in too much gossamer

With countless Christmas lights entwined around

Temporary styrofoam pillars

In a futile attempt to mask

Its workaday function

And permanent BO,

A fitting parallel

To the freshmen and sophomores
Bedecked in their
Personal best,

Trickling in from 

Last-legged mini vans 

And a few flaunted sports cars,

None of which holds any direct correlation

To the quality of awkward gesticulation

About to ensue.

Kim and I are bouncers at the far doors,

Corks meant to keep the effervescent

Giddy hope 

And a few other things

Contained where they belong

(Until the fire alarm sounds

And all the unpredictable flames

Leap out of control).

The DARE officer 

Plays lineman and fireman,

Running interference periodically

Through the heart of the

Frosh pits, dodging elbows and 

Other overly exposed body parts

To stamp out the first sparks of 

Reckless teenage matches

And their attempts at fire by friction.

As the dj pumps out
Paroxysmic juxtapositions of

Pop, rap, and country, 

The expanding hoard slowly begins throbbing 

Like a leg beset by growing pains or a 

Zit begging to be popped.

The full-body sequins

And other gaudy baubles 

Of the Lady Gagette elite

Flounce and sparkle

In contrast with the
Borrowed black pants and
Worn-out khakis
Of their male counterparts

Who have either
Summoned up the courage or
Been cowed into

"Taking them out."

A quiet, usually camo-strewn hunter

In my English class

With a reading style slow and steady enough
To avoid being noticed by anyone

Is moving with a natural smoothness and rhythm 

I never would've imagined

In his black dress cowboy boots.

He's short and unabashed,

And his shorter, red-headed,

Firecracker of a sociable girlfriend

Is curiously being the wallflower,
Though he keeps tracking her down,

Refusing to join in this primal ritual

That he has single-handedly 

Transformed into something that

Transcends his classmates and classes

Into something

Classy.

I'm taken aback.

But it is Monday now

And the dancing hunter-king

Is quiet

Once again camaflauging himself

Against being called or picked on.

And the gossamered, sparkly-slipper gym

Is back to pumpkin, basketball-court orange,

Its girls and boys preparing for the whistle

To begin the game of dodgeball:

That bizarre dance that perpetuates

Their ever endeavor

To take someone
anyone
out.