Fifteen - A Poem and Photograph by Patty Mooney

He is fifteen.
He is the new kid, skinny.
He passes through the angst
we all must travel
and sticks to the walls.
He is not so terrible.
He unlocks his father's gun cabinet,
he picks one out
his backpack bulges
cartridges and blue steel.
He is blue, too.
He has mentioned his intentions
to friends who dismissed him.
It is Monday like the song.
At Santana High School
he is patted down by a pal
who bypasses the backpack
that is stacked with anger.
Andy thought he had buried it in Maryland
but he's carried it here to Santee.
The song rolls through his mind
as he strides to the boys' room.
"Tell me why I don't like Mondays,
Tell me why I don't like Mondays."
Before this Monday gets away
he sends bullets
into his disillusionment.
He is a good shot.
Students down crying and screaming,
running and bleeding.
One spirit passes through the constrictions
of body and building.
Andy has freed him.
Another clings to life until later at the hospital
he drifts up like helium.
Andy has freed him.
Andy methodically pounds out four rounds.
The clips click smartly.
The students are dancing to his tune now.
An officer, gauging the beat between pops
tackles the boy, makes him stop.
The bloody bathroom spins around them.
The boy is relieved of his father's weapon.
He is fifteen.