With fear and trepidation
I approach her in my tenth grade Geometry class.
It is high school,
where sensitivity to fragile, frail emotions
and basic respect for human dignity
are valued little more
than industrial commodities
like iron and steel:
bought and sold daily
in staggering bulk quantities
on the open market.
Having no particular attraction to the girl,
she is little more to me
than a convenient opportunity,
randomly chosen for no other reason
than the fact that she is there.
Yet in hopeful desperation I toss out
an invitation to the upcoming dance,
like a GI in an old War War II flick
quickly popping out of a foxhole
and blindly lobbing a hand grenade
into a darkened German bunker.
She speaks nothing in return;
after all, she doesn't need to-
her silent, scathing, sarcastic, scowling sneer
still speaks volumes louder
than the strongest words
in the English language
could ever hope to express.
Then it hits me
like a bullet to the chest:
It's the Sadie-Hawkins Dance...
The girl is supposed to ask the guy!"