I glare at it During last period, Jumping too high But not high enough To reach the swinging rope.
I'm in history, And some glazed-over teacher Is pointing at the Chalkboard which has Tiny scratches that look like words Scribbled all over.
But I don't look at my notes, Because my neck is craning Too far back To look at the rope That is My two and a half hours of freedom.
A single note is released into the halls And the students chace it And I leap into the air Because the rope Is reachable And I grab it.
I begin to climb.
I sit by you on the Dirt-dusted tile floor Outside the gym And we work on algebra Or english if it's a good day.
And don't get me wrong, I hate the familiar stench of homework As much as The next Hunchbacked highschooler. The rope stings my hands While I climb. You numb the burn.
But I have practice And the rope is easy to climb And I reach the top In two and a half hours And you get into The yellow sardine can That goes to your neighborhood.
And all of my muscles ache when you go.
Two and a half hours between school and crew practice.