Ode to the End-of-Year 6th Grade Picnic

It began with a game of two-hand touch, though such
administratively imposed regulations were quickly
forgotten as soon as the Isley Brothers record started
playing and the teachers two-stepped off into the distance.

Coach Lonnie turned toward the grill, spatula in hand,
ready to turn burgers into reprieve from subpar report
cards. We called him Coach, although his large belly
belied the athletic prowess of his past. He flipped his

fleur-de-lis cap backwards and threw on an apron
that read, Always something good cookin’ in my kitchen.
I had just learned how to spell innuendo though I still
wasn’t sure what it meant. Later, The Hot Boys

were blasting through large Sony speaker’s that turned
everywhere within a 200-foot radius into unrepentant
celebration. Lil’ Wayne assuring us with brazen certainty
that the block indeed was hot, even the most secure

of us heeded the warning to check the soles of our feet.
After we ensured the safety of our appendages, we returned
to the feast. Hot dog in one hand, Kool-Aid in the
other—all of us singularly committed to getting our roll

on. The girls danced in clusters, becoming accustomed
to the bourgeoning parabola of their hips, learning the
power they wielded over boys who were dawdling
amalgamations of awkward and bravado.

Prepubescent pick-up lines made rejection quotidian
and gave your boys ammunition for weeks come.