I was ten, and I had been summoned.

I don't remember what small infraction had
worked its way to the top and back down again
to me, but I had been summoned and I went.

Awkward, dry-mouthed, I stood before his desk.

The words came:

Bone dry words, rubbing together in the quiet
afternoon, faint dusty trails in the antiseptic air
marking their passage.

Mute, bemused I stood, losing all meaning
as the droning sounds, louder now, chewed the
words to sawdust and blew them at me.

I could see the larger flakes layering in random
drifts on the sterile green carpet. The smaller flecks
made patterns on my brand new shoes.

In an agony of thirst, I dreamed of rain.
My tongue toured my desert mouth seeking
an oasis hidden somewhere behind my teeth.

I fought the urge to sneeze,
unthinkable here where
one spark from a tickling nostril
would ignite the sawdust, blow up this office,
and perhaps the whole school in some kind of
dust-inspired chain reaction.

The sawing stopped. He was through.

Mumbling something, anything, I escaped,
and as the door closed behind me,

he sneezed.

In a panic, I fled down the hall,
believing with all my child's heart
that an explosion would surely follow.

I was only ten.