Walking down the street she finds her hands
jammed into pockets, blue jeans tight
across the hips she likes to move to music--
barefoot, hair down, silver tape recorder
blaring loud. She's seventeen. Her mother
calls her Bluebell just to get a rise, goes off
to work the morning shift in almost white
shoes and cap and apron, while daughter
slouches over Cheerios, sips coffee, stares ahead
and thinks how much she hates the smell of books.
"Goodbye." And once again "Goodbye" as now she
turns a corner stained with leaf tattoos
from early rain, pretends she doesn't care
that she is pregnant from a skinny man
she slept with once, who'll never know, who
thinks of her as something he once tasted,
might again. She moves along, indifferent
to the aching bit of smoke from cigarette
she sucks. She's seventeen. All's possible. All isn't.
Today at school they'll see a stupid film.