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Thursday, September 6

H.S.

My high school is one of those old-school structures

from the Great Depression days, or something.

Kids come from all five boroughs, and most of us bus or train,

although since it’s my zone school, I can walk to it on a nice day.

Chisholm H.S. sits wide and squat, taking up half a block,

redbrick and fenced-in courtyard with ball hoops and benches.

It’s not like Twin’s fancy genius school: glass, and futuristic.

This is the typical hood school, and not too long ago

it was considered one of the worst in the city:

gang fights in the morning and drug deals in the classroom.

It’s not like that anymore, but one thing I know for sure

is that reputations last longer than the time it takes to make them.

So I walk through metal detectors, and turn my pockets out,

and greet security guards by name, and am one of hundreds

who every day are sifted like flour through the doors.

And I keep my head down, and I cause no waves.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, this place is a place,

neither safe nor unsafe, just a means, just a way to get closer

to escape.