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The Halls After Hours

An Ode to My High School Self

At first glance she might look studious, or nerdy,

sitting crisscross applesauce on the floor.

Her nose in a book,

a notebook open across her lap,

a worksheet propped against her knee,

and a calculator balancing carefully on her thigh.

Her bright pink ballet flats sitting quietly at rest on one side.

On the other, her purse tipped over with it's contents spilling across the hall,

just waiting for her searching fingers to find the right pen.

She sits straight against the cool brick wall,

nearly hidden between a water fountain and a recycling bin.

Her locker propped open across from her, 

it's insides as cluttered as her brain.

The scratchy blue carpet playfully catches her knee socks, 

unwilling to be forgotten in the sleepy tableau.

The row of lockers stare coldly at her, 

penetrated here and there by birthday wrapping paper and event flyers.

The lights hum above her,

breaking into the tranquil silence.

There is no movement but the flipping of pages,

no sounds but the lights.

And there she sits, absorbing the peace,

waiting in the familiar halls,

occasionally glancing out the window for her ride.


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The Halls After Hours
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