Sonnie’s Out

Sonnie, into the classroom with his metronome,
ahead of himself already, walls,
a category for the thing, sliding across the floor
because steps would be too irregular, if even
with his tick. He says, “I know
you just dump stuff here, Miss,
from your own bigotry. All this filthy work!
Replicated copy! Talk talk talk
talk talk!” He was wearing clothes now, which he smoothed
as he began to pirouette around the room
telling us of all the idiosyncrasies he was being forced
to think, and sing, as he had to make do. “Make do
just as you do, Miss. But what can I do
to make you love me?” as his tick—point—
lies to the audience: Sonnie
was back again with a headache forming, a touch
of a glow about him that he worried
could become a statue, outside
this gated community
categorised
by the axiom of power, “Which should make you cross!”