From the Fishouse

My best friend and I lobbed wooden bingo chips
at the back of her habit. Uniformed
children craving attention, bored
with accent aigu and accent grave,
hoping to evoke a Mon dieu! or our
favorite, Ooh la, la!, we were unprepared for her
outburst of tears and spittle. You kids can go
to Hell! And her comeback, some time later,
in charge of the milk cooler
by the lunch window. We placed
our dimes and nickels in her hand. Then,
before we received a thing, she asked, How
are my two favorite boys? and pulled us in against her.