Carole was one
of the shortest girls
in class;
she had blonde

short cropped hair
and sat next to Miss Pretty,
and was always yakking,
always giving her opinion

on  something or other,
her voice was high
( as if someone had
grabbed her ****

Reynard said),
her eyes blue,
her compact body
(seen from behind)

was clothed in the cardigan
and skirt and blouse
of the uniform of the school.
You watched her

as she put a hand
to the side of her mouth
and whispered to Miss Pretty.
Her thin small hand

hid her mouth;
just the whispering sound
hung on the air.
Can you be quiet, Carole,

Miss Graham, the teacher said.
Reynard whispered,
fancy being married to her;
she'd wear your ears away,

with her non-stop tongue.
And looked at her backside,
imagine that lying next
to you in bed each morning,

he added.
You tried not to,
imagine that is,
not that at least,

Miss Pretty maybe,
you thought,
taking in her thin frame
beside short ***  Carole

sitting next to her.
Miss Graham put on
the Mozart LP
on the record player

and the class sat
bemused or bored,
except Miss Pretty
whose head nodded slowly,

whose foot tapped
a silent beat
and shorty Carole
whose mouth was sealed,

arms crossed,
elbows on the desk,
sat with eyes fixed
on the record player.

While Reynard muttered comments
about both the girls,
debating in whispered voice,
who had the biggest backside,

or smallest *******,
who he would least like
to kiss, while you,
wondering how long

it took for the Mozart guy
to compose the stuff,
noticing Miss Pretty's
pointing finger

conducting,
some imagined orchestra,
her long wrist moving
like a moving swan,

her head to one side,
stirring momentarily,
an odd feeling within you,
which you had to hide.