What the hell, you ask,
flush and flustered, spitting
the worst words you know,

the hell of the schoolbus
lurching to a stop
on my street, the red

flashing lights we'd pretend
were lasers firing
from our yellow tank,

the hell of the quiet
between whatever
third grade boys chatter

on their ride home, sitting
together, the hell
of my leaning in

for a sudden peck
against your pink lips,
an impulse I can't

resist or explain,
the hell I'm going
to be living in

for years before
I can even begin
to answer that question.

Chad Frame