Weathering of a Classic

Lennie and George weren't
the most popular folk in class. I swore
three weeks to finish a novella was an embarrassment,
and the flannel-ridden,
monkey-wrench wielding jocks
fettered by name and appearance to the cute girls
that didn't want to concentrate either
threw their wrenches accordingly,
and the teacher, Mr. Moss,
a fresh father of a lovely daughter,
far from un-trimmed claws of teenaged debauchery,
sent Lennie and George on their ways from Weed
and the jocks down to the office.

When Lennie was in the stable with Crooks
he broke us in groups and told me
to teach some of the others what I knew.
The others didn't care at all
if their pages were crenellated,
their margins shared tiny crude jokes,
or if the duo were to find
their haven in their end,
only about a town
the two ran from called Weed,
a dance, a Friday night football game
under the lights.

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