delighted the summer heat is slipping
nervous it’s late August when the memories
of school “prison” still return
a half century later
I step into the old brick building. 7th grade. The biggers and smarters hog the hallways. The cool ones hold court in corners, newbies weave along the fronts of lockers. The atmosphere gray and loud. The hustle dripping with meanness. There are my people - in that room of confusion. Homeroom roll call answered in nervy cracked voices. We’re told about the dual school bells - one for the five minutes you have to reach class, the other that says you’re in trouble if you’re not there.
I come back blinking
still sunk in my sofa
a first arrow of sun
strikes the waterfall
and diamonds pour into the pond
the living room clock strikes eight times
I stifle a yawn with a slight shudder
This time of year I’m hostage
to those ghosts that wait
somewhere just beyond
the steam in my coffee
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