Poetry by Dythandra

Positions Wanted

Internet radio means late nights
And I, already so slow to rise,
Now wearied further
By late night verbal ministrations to my loyal audience.

Public school's near an end
For one such as myself
Yet here are hoops to jump through
And my apathy
Makes such gymnastics difficult.

The counselor looks up warily,
As I saunter in, sit indifferently, pop my gum
And meet her tense smile
With narrowed eyes.

So, (here she speaks my hated name)
It seems we have a problem with your... credits.
You're not in a position to graduate.
I glance at the computer screen she swivels my way.

Of course, if you pass your math class...
She and I both know that math,
Bane of my school life,
And oh so early in the morning
Is an insurmountable obstacle.

So, (she seems a little hesitant)
We need to see what we can do
To put you in a position to graduate.
She keeps repeating that phrase.

I murmur something about positions, too
Alluding to something more... tantric.
The color in her cheeks
Tells me she heard, but chooses to pretend.

She decides my last best hope
Is to saddle some poor teacher
With a less than enthusiastic assistant
It will provide the credit hours
That will free me from this place.

She runs down the options quickly,
Shakes her head at some,
Giggles at another--
I sigh and slump back in my chair.

Then a pause.
What do you know about computers?
Seems the nearly-retired computer teacher
So behind the technological times
Has lost his most able helper.

'Twas actually a North Korean,
And the passport was off a bit
In age as well.
The Homeland Security folks
Took our young foreign student away
When he tried to access missile command
From the school's computer network.

I grab the proffered life preserver
And head down to the tech lab
To get the papers signed.

Serendipity, it seems
When I arrive home that day
To discover our internet provider
Has warned we've reached our bandwith limit
My radio success has overwhelmed our allotment.

Now the school server
Will broadcast my wisdom
To my faithful fans

If only I trusted them enough
To share this delicious irony.

I could have coasted thus, content
To the end and then, escape.

But only three weeks later,
I'm called to account.
Seems one of my most loved record labels
Has tracked me down
And copyright lawyers are coming to visit.

My best battle is yet to come.