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Poem

She gets her jollies from standing in front of the mirror
Playing with her headlights, pretending she is not feeling herself up.
I am shocked. This is his mother he is talking about right?
Oh, his sister. Okay. Better….
I try to write another sentence, but cannot think. 

And that crazy Erin. She is a nut-bucket. She paints her skin.
She puts flecks of red on her wrists, and tells people she cut herself.
The closest she ever gets to a knife is at breakfast 
and it has marmalade on it.
I wish he would talk at someone else, but I am the only one here,
trying to be alone. 

I am only half listening to him now; it is weird that he is noticing
this stuff, especially the stuff about his sister.
I start pulling hairs out of my nose with my peanut butter laced finger.
It does me good, and keeps me from totally hearing this nut bucket. 
I stare at my paper where six poems should have been. 
The lunchroom has never been undisturbed since he came to work here.
Starting tomorrow I shall lunch in my room, under my desk.

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