My sixteen year old self
is glad I’m not writing poems
about high school. Mrs. Gruber
was a terror teaching algebra,
Evan Stackhouse tried to bully
every student who wasn’t as dumb
as he was and lord was he dumb.
Dissecting frogs left me with blood
on my hands and Sally Whitehurst
always locked her knees when all
I wanted was to buy her chocolate
cake in the scrubbed cafeteria…
but enough, I couldn’t wait to get out,
wander in the world, take my chances
on its being kind to another snot nose
kid. My sixteen year old self
is glad I’m not writing about high school,
“Let Sally Whitehurst fend for herself.”
Photo by Shannan Muskopf