the teacher gave each of us a copy
of Catcher in the Rye and told us
to read it, we all remember that day
it wasn't an especially memorable
day but we still recall it, the
introduction revealed a voice we
sort of already knew
Holden kept us awake when Heathcliff couldn't
the story vented of real injustices that, in reality,
struck bold dignitaries murmurless
events we all imagined dangerous took root
and we imagined reckless things since then
under that angry rebel's troubled
idiosyncrasies cowered a cheating angel unrecognised
on everyone's glowing text, typed to treat guilt
even on untitled avenues:
catch a body, a fragment of Phoebe's recollection
could it take revolt, after all, to undo the standard;
topple respected idols with a riot?
(telephone service turns, relentless influences)
does it withstand an ego made depressed by
school rules impelling teenage irrationalities?
ridden violently so to crash head-on where
antagonist utopia kills humanity, kills all
on to scripted war, valiant army requiring
an individual to ignite rapidly all weapons
in reach
to us, this advancement ran timid idiots over
cars and ultimatums, over ending, going tales, too
the teacher gave us a bomb and sat at her desk,
expecting an explosion any minute

-c.j.