May I go to the Restroom?

"Mr. Eickstead, may I go to the restroom?"
"Yes sir, you may."
Without missing a beat, the student drops trow
and defiles the small crevice between my bookshelves
where tuckered students swaddle themselves
in hooded sweatshirts and sleep through
Southern Gothic novels and Shakespearian tragedies.

"Mr. Eicktead, stop him!" the class demands -
I pause and think -
that bookshelf is not worth my job or the jail time.
How would one really stop such an act anyway?
Just thinking about the logistics of such a production
is icky, painful, and probably violates TEA policy.
But what am I to do?
I gather the class and gently remind them to, "listen with
your eyes and your ears" as I walk to the far side
of the room and inform the whiz kid that upon the
denouement of his plot line, he can transfer my note
to the principal and himself to a new school. 

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