Third Period

The lockers stand like shut mouths,

rows of blue metal holding onto

bad grades and old gum.

I walked the long way back,

my boots making too much noise

on the yellow linoleum.

The silence is a thick thing here.

Behind the doors with wired glass,

a muffled voice is explaining

the geography of a place

none of these kids will ever visit.

I stopped at a single black scuff,

a sneaker’s desperate skid

left behind by someone

who was probably late for a life

they didn't want yet.