People pool, don’t they –
into clique-y groups, fiery moments
and watery, stroppy, wish-we-coulds?
The outsider is a needle in the hay:
the heart is there. The soul
is, surely, connected with the rest.
But the sense of one girl’s skin
waits, crawls, skitters and drools
and skates a lonely figure
on the playground of the cool.
What she needs to do
is treat expectation like a foe.
Why lie down and take it,
when victory’s won versus the lazy?