School Detention with Sister B

"Hey, Sister B, can we bum us a butt?"

"Not today, Boys, but you'll each get a pack
on visiting day at Riker's Island"
she said without the nun's evil eye,
crow's feet by her one good eye grinning,
after the smoke in the boys' room had vanished.

B liked to call us lost in Flatbush
lords of the flies who needed a ruler
rapped on our knuckles each time we'd say
Hi-mə-ˈlā-ən instead of Hi-ˈmäl-yən
Mountains in world geography class.

"Brooklyn ain't Katmandu, Sister B."

She kept her butts in a black satin bag
Rodino said was Victoria's Secret,
but jokes about B had better be white
and smell like vanilla on apron strings,
or black as cinctures on habits would have it,
whatever we'd say about tits in blue jumpers.

B was fresh squeeze, the other ones Tang
that tasted like grit they left in their chalice,
and B was the one who helped us believe
in spite of the thunder rumbling in
Coney Island wet dreams under our skin
Brooklyn or even Nepal could be heaven.