We Are the Kindergarteners

We are leaping and peeping and laughing and clapping. A fun day for sure, and there has been no slapping. We are the kindergarteners, a mighty throng. We are cheering and yelling, one is singing a song. Our play dough is gone; we let it dry up completely. We have smeared down the tables with glue, rather neatly. We live to paint, each other, our hands, and one guy his toes. We are all together in this, a unit in giant happy big throes. Our teacher comes in all perky and young, cute to the max. When we leave out at night she looks like she has been sitting on tacks. We are leaping and peeping and cackling and mooing. Jake is in the corner, yelling “Uncle,” and Sally is boo-hooing. Our teacher is showing someone how to take a reading test. Another teacher, we do not like, is trying to make the rest of us rest. We are leaping and peeking and pretending we do not understand. We are the kindergarteners, and one of us has a live snake in his hand.