The red converse of teenage soul laced up on his feet that summer spring day, propped up against the chair in front of him, shadowed by a desk too small for his imagination. . .

Hey. The slow turn, eyes cast to the side through the windowless walls, through the English classroom next door, through the brick cement and clotted insulation, clotted pink insulation, past the fence, across the river, down the hill, into a deep green forest.

​Hey. The steel rims falling from a pointed nose glare at the dreaming boy. You're on your phone again, aren't you?
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​In the forest, the light filtering through the leaves paint shadows on his cheeks. He kneels - to feel the dirt. It is moist.

​Hey. Are you listening to me? Where's your phone? Why aren't you completing the worksheet?

​His hand burrows a hole, curious fingers unwrapping parcels of dead leaves, leaves sighing on the trees, trees touching cheeks, cheeks warming in the sunlight.

​Young man, we need to talk.

There is a lisping tune in the wind that passes through the forest, a mingling of birdsong and breath. The earth underneath hums.

Are you listening to me? Give me it now!

​He stoops again, untying, untying, untying ... what is past breaks away with each jerk of spindly lace. Let me but feel the dirt beneath my feet so I can know that I am still alive and there is nothing between me and anyone else and anything else but dirt. Soft dirt. Soft dirt that can be brushed away. Soft dirt that can hold me. Soft dirt that I can stand on.

​Put on your shoes. Put on your shoes! Did you hear me? Put on your shoes.

​Dirt.

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