We sweat like slaves chained in the hold of a ship,
eyeballing the clock for the same even number,
panting for recess, as the seconds crept by.
Until we were certain, we would die there,
till the long morning was over, and we heard the sweet bell of freedom.
Chairs scraped, and desks slid, the exit plan established as
we blasted through our lunches and then outside,
to 45’s playing on portable battery operated players to John, Paul, George, and Ringo,
the latest band on the top 10 hit list.
Our ponytails sailed,
hips swerved, and arms swung
to the Jerk, the Pony and the Swim.
We rocked to a revolution
in an age oozing mini-skirts, fishnets and patched hip-hugging jeans decorated with flower power;
the temperatures rising,
scoring cool boyfriends,
dizzy from our heat.