School’s out. All that’s required of me is to write.
I can do that from anywhere. I’m ready to run.
As soon as we round a corner and travel from
unadulterated, innocent open road to the meshed
together stop-go, stop-go, of Northwest Boulevard
I know that it’s not much longer until I’m home.
I start each morning with a Bowl of Soul, Mexican mocha,
extra sweet, with homemade whip and a gaggle of giggly
girls before we spend our days splashing in the waves
and frolicking downtown, in and out of shops. There’s no place
in the world we’d rather be. There’s no place like home.
A summer class, math is my worst enemy, can’t even
dampen my spirits. Four days a week of fast cars and
freedom. The air, the people, the atmosphere is contagious
because there’s never a dull moment. I can’t get enough.
There’s no battles to overcome, gargantuan hills or
otherwise because I’ve got an easy feeling and my
camera. Loud music, hippies, and cute barista boy
with the dark curls and ocean-colored eyes.