The Wait

An anonymous reader sent me this fabulously atmospheric poem, and I liked it enough to share with you all.

Due to the infamous Email Black Hole of 2009, by the time I clawed my way far enough out of my inbox to reply to this wonderful contribution, the email address from which it had been sent was no longer valid. I regret not being able to express my appreciation more personally, but I hope the author will see this post and know how much I enjoyed their creation. Thankyou, Anon!

The Wait

Rebecca sat nervously in the hall
Outside the Head’s office. A high-pitched squall
Of girlish distress reached her through the door
And she raised her teary gaze from the floor
For an instant. She knew too well the cause,
Which, after a tense, agonising pause,
Was repeated: the sudden whizz and whump
Of a long, springy cane against the plump
Proffered rounds of her friend Amanda’s rump.
Another yelp that tailed off in a sob…
Rebecca felt a sympathetic throb
In her tender flesh where it pressed the chair.
Had old Higgins, she wondered, made her bare
Her bum? It didn’t really make much odds.
Whichever he chose of his wicked rods
(And he’d quite an array) would truly sear
His wrath on a wayward young lady’s rear
And knickers wouldn’t dim those lines of flame,
Though they’d somewhat lessen the sense of shame.
Once more the thin lawgiver clearly spoke –
That awful crack resounding through the oak –
And again the miscreant testified
To its rule applied across her backside.
But now that the sentence was halfway served,
Rebecca’s fearful meditations swerved
Away from the pangs of her sorry chum
And were focused more on her own poor bum.
For once the last of the six was delivered,
It was her turn, and she visibly shivered.
In too little time her friend would be sent
Off weeping and she instead would be bent
Across the desk, while the Head raised her skirt
And explained how much her thrashing would hurt
And how he felt it was thoroughly earned.
So strokes four and five she scarcely discerned
(Though Amanda, of course, was sure she got ’em!)
While thinking so hard of her own soft bottom.
But soon came the sixth, and the post-whack wail,
And after a minute, tearful and pale,
There stood Amanda, too shaken to speak,
A hand firmly clutched to each fire-filled cheek,
And there stood the Head, that horrid thing flexed
In his hands, quietly commanding, “Next.”
Rebecca was moving as in a dream,
Limbs weak as jelly and chilled as ice-cream,
Following orders and playing her part
While the hot tears started to well and smart
As she laid her face on the polished wood
And promised herself she’d always be good
In future, and the cool air touched her bum
(The last of cool for a long time to come),
And she felt she’d gone from eighteen to eight
In the course of her endless, too-brief wait.