Seventh grade chemistry class. Kenneth dug deep, like a planter’s hand. He worked a potter’s green thumb. He scratched his thinly haired groin beneath the school desk. Mrs. Garvin, his infatuation, used a walking cane that tapped tapped tapped. Her skirt fluttering in synchronicity. O Mrs. Garvin wielded her cane, O she tapped tapped broken pieces of blackboard chalk, O Mrs. Garvin clutched his multi-colored dick, Kenneth imagined, as her death stick rattled, her subterranean tap tap tap echoing up from spring’s disturbed soils as Kenneth’s green thumb encountered a belt buckle. Begonias screamed at the schoolhouse window. Fleurs outside the recreation area sprayed like summer cats. He squeezed sweaty thighs together as piss seeped out the penis head, a pencil racing breakneck. Nothing could stymie that kind of an onslaught, and while he unzippered Kenneth remembered a bright, steely thimble poking from a drawer stuffed full of his mother’s lingerie, the small, deadly thimble glistening like a metallic condom, and how frightening it seemed to look at much less touch. He unsheathed. He still hesitated to look at the (literal) upshot. Tap Tap Tap. Then his vision sidled toward his hectic Chemistry notes, formulas, letters, numbers, notes which bulged inordinately large, spreading two lines apiece, thickly pressed, and further downward, his handwriting dissolved, the characters liberating themselves becoming abstract lines, doodles, crisscrosses and mishmash. Spring’s steely thimble contained, then, when disturbed, in bright chaos released the first rains.