In My School

In my school

the boys slick

back their hair

with grease that

streaks down necks

on sweaty August days,

flash f-e-a-r

on every knuckle,

dots from pins

and blue-black ink;

Teacher sprays

the room with

blue Evening in Paris

against the heat

and stink of boys.

In my school

the girls go in twos,

hold hands, skip

down the path,

except on winter days,

when we never

feel the need

to go at all.

Those days,

we peel off

crusty mittens,

extra socks, wet scarves

that hiss and steam

on radiators blasting heat.

Janie’s tights are red

and mine are black,

and we learn

the words that we

must never say,

the vocabulary

of crime and punishment

together.

In my school

we read in groups,

learn county seats,

sing patriotic songs,

chew pencils that

record our dreams

in speckled books

with sewn down pages,

tearfully recite

our tables, hoping for

another chance when

we forget our nines.

In my school

we line for sugar cubes,

pink saviors

Mr. Sabin sent too late

for poor Christine.

In spring,

the rest of us

skate red dog lines

on green tile floors,

wash dusty boards,

bang chalk clouds in the air,

chase tiny frogs

that jump from

scummy science jars.

At lunch, we munch

thick meat sandwiches,

crunchy pickles,

sticky cakes,

drink milk with

bendy straws;

at the end

of every month

we feast on

thick commodity bread,

big chunks of creamy cheese,

and soupy beans.

In my school

we are six grades

three rooms

three teachers --

self-contained,

and we never know,

we never know as kids

we’re not the world;

we never know that

there is any other way.

Thanks to bluesugarpoet for inspiring this poem with her "Your School vs. My School."