Old School

Good Christ, he muttered. Again
this morning, the tricked out
copper Kia was parked
in his accustomed spot.

As he pulled himself and his stuff
out of his battered Volvo,
the students took no notice.
Barely legal and over sexed,
they kept the AC running,
her seat reclined three-
quarters the way down, and he
looming over the stiff gear shift
hovering over her rising heat.
Their mouths open and connected
as they tried to knot their tongues.

The long-tenured English
professor tried not to stare,
so he couldn’t quite make out
where the boy’s hands rested
or did not. He trudged past
their windshield, office
bound, toting his briefcase
stuffed with ungraded papers
on Marvell’s To His Coy Mistress.
His resentment fermented
with each step toward his desk—
a fine and private place.