No High School

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.”