Big windows would pour in light.
The climb up a long and sweaty process.
The sour candy of every student and teacher:
Harsh at first, but deliciously worth it
A long hallway: one sided
Stretching across
Four rooms holding
The four Gods of our school.
The four teachers that
Everyone wants to hang out with.
This floor a Mecca for
High School Cool.
Each room, wide
Mile high ceilings with
Big windows that
Stretch up and across
Leaving a sense of nostalgia
Even on your first day.
The classes are history:
People, places, and sarcastic commentary.
Every mouth cracks jokes,
And teaches us all the things
That we really need to know.
I remember the first time I went up.
It was before school, a morning club,
And I was a baby, a freshman
Bringing vanilla chai to my senior sister.
The room was filled with celebrities
And they were in the penthouse
And I couldn't wait until I was that cool
And I would have my own club
Up in the only place for the coolest kids.
But heaven can't last
Because now the 3rd floor
Sit uninhabited.
A mere fossil of its once great glory
Aching to be visited again
By every true believer
In Durham School Of The Arts
Soon it will be torn down
Like the rest of our
Dangerous and homey
Julian S. Carr building.
Closing off the 3rd floor
Had already bruised our hearts.
The wrecking ball that will destroy this
Will smash all of us who are
Covered in lead paint
With asbestos lungs
Made out of the air conditioners
That shoot ice shards
When left on too long.
I took a trip up the elevator once
And looked around the hallway
That means so much to all of us.
Most of the doors were locked
But one room was not.
I took a deep breath in
Of the famous and old fashioned air
And my eyes examined every detail
And I prayed that tomorrow
We'd all be back there
Making jokes and complaining
About the hike up.
I don't get my senior year
On the 3rd floor.
I don't get any freshman
Bringing me vanilla chai,
Looking wide-eyed at me
And my friends like we're superstars.
And I certainly never get
To go on field trips to
The nearest café with my
AP European History class.
The times are different now
We are forced into
A shiny new box:
The New Building
Children don't learn respect
For the seniors in that building.
Non-curriculum lectures are hushed
By authority strolling in
Every class period.
Creativity can't plant itself here.
The dirt is tightly packed
And sealed over with pesticidal plastic,
When the 3rd floor was a
Loose and healthy dirt bed
For the uncommon minds
To explode in a garden
Of originality, bugs and all.
I fear for the children after me.
The ones who never knew
And will never know
What it meant to
Really be at DSA.
There is nothing more we can do
But try and rip the new building plastic
And churn the dirt ourselves
And pray that something
Authentic and untainted will still grow.
No comments:
Post a Comment