After All It Ends

(I was thinking about all of us. All our inside jokes and fun times...and I came up with this. This is written from my perspective in a few years. I meant to read it...and it sounds way better when I read it aloud rather than on paper,but never found the chance. So here it is.)

I still snap my fingers
When it’s time to clap
They say “Put your hands together”
And I? I snap.
I still think of room 211
When I see a post-it note
I still shiver
Every time I read what I wrote.
When someone says “jam”
I think “poetry,” not “bread”
Since then, recitation isn’t a trial
It’s become joy, instead.
When someone says “Gimme more”
I think “That’s not right…”
I feel like something’s missing
Every Friday night
Because I wasn’t at MHS
Listening to poems about transvestite
Dinosaurs or chronic insomnia
But when I tell them how I miss it,
They just say “Get on with ya”
But how could they understand?
How could they see?
That words bond more deeply than any history?
Carrying couches down hallways
Who thought that could be fun?
You know, iHop is the place to be
When a show is done.
Under-cover operations
Were never so significant
As when we hid the flowers
And hoped the bucket wouldn’t tip.
In my head, MC and Benson
Are basically the same thing
If you’re looking for a techie,
Victoria is king.
Activity periods and cheese-its
Tend to go hand in hand
The best directors’ meetings
Are those that really…weren’t planned.
When I’m feeling creative,
My instinct is to doodle on the white board
When someone says “Hang on…I’m writing”
I never feel ignored.
When I hear something significant
I think “Mr. Collyer would have his head in his hands right about now”
You know, I still miss Kassi and Solana’s
Bow-chica-wow-wow
It’s the little things
That make us just like the poetry we write
I still miss Friday afternoons
Every Friday night.

~~Frances~~