Kill Kill Kill Kill Kill Kill Kill Kill Kill

He wrote kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill all over his paper. He is nine, opinionated, and loves negative attention. He likes positive attention too, but getting negative attention works faster. Angry teacher brings him to my office with the clipboard as proof. She hands me the clipboard. They were supposed to write their feelings she says. His face is a storm cloud. He shuts down for ten minutes. This gives me time to write a bit of poetry. When he is ready to talk, he turns into Mr. Delight. We do this dance a couple of times a semester. I am patient and know the rules. I let him control the situation. He now wants to talk and play in sand. I get the sand out. He becomes Mr. Congeniality. Tells me about his grandpa. His grandpa is called Uncle Joe curiously enough. Uncle Joe is 83. He says, “If he gets a girl and marries it, I get to speak the words.” “You mean you get to be the preacher?” He nods. What age girl is he looking for? Someone young, maybe sixty-four. Sadly, I know no sixty-four-year-olds. How soon do you think you can speak the words? "When I am 18," he says. Which brings Uncle Joe to 92. I ask him to never write “kill kill kill kil kill” again at school. He says “okay”. It is over unless the teacher riles him up again. Which I hope does not happen.