At the back of the bikeshed
was the urinal where proud seniors
proved their manhood
peeing up the wall
to shower success on passers by.
And rain and shine
we peed and farted our way through
arithmetic and golden trajectories
learning about ourselves
watching, fascinated as Malcolm,
leaping cricket stumps,
fell to split his balls
and bleed a painful trail
across mushroom smelling concrete
to collapse, groaning,
across the cracked, stained bowl-
and teachers running,
Mrs Robertson, skirts raised
above modest knees, running to
carry Malcolm, against her heaving breast,
to the staff room
and parents crying
oblivious to our whispered questions
and curious stares.

Alan Papprill

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