Classroom Gas-tronomy
In the echoing halls of third grade,
he sits,
a nine-year-old lad,
master of the silent symphony,
the classroom's perpetual farter.
His seat,
a throne of hidden thunder,
each release a stealthy gust,
an unseen hand
that wafts through the air,
invisible yet undeniable.
The girl down the aisle,
her eyes wide with wonder,
a scientist in the making,
studies his every move,
curiosity alive in her gaze,
as if decoding a secret code
woven into the classroom's air.
Behind him, another boy leans in,
a connoisseur of the bizarre,
nostrils flared,
a grin of delight,
as if savoring an exotic aroma,
a scent no perfumer could bottle,
no poet describe.
Around them, the classroom sits in horror,
a collective grimace,
eyes watering, faces twisted,
as the odor waxes and wanes,
an olfactory tide
rolling over their senses,
an assault, a mystery, a marvel.
The teacher, oblivious or resigned,
continues her lesson,
her voice a distant murmur
against the backdrop of gasps and giggles,
the chalk tapping out rhythms
to an unseen, unsmelled beat.
In this microcosm of education,
where curiosity meets discomfort,
and humor mingles with disgust,
the perpetual farter reigns,
a maestro of mischief,
a king in a kingdom of scents.
Copyright ©
Don Iannone
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