I see it as from outside a window,
Myself walking fast, head bowed,
Life happening all around me without sound,
Distanced even then, not sure I know why
The paces of development grow hazy around that line.
My heart was soft,
My head curiously empty,
A balloon floating along,
Not certain where she might belong
It was the best of times,
I still go there in my head,
I don't remember the feel of the wind on my face,
But the feel of the wood I sat on in my classroom
The urgency every time the bell rang for lunch hour,
The acrid taste of isolation when I hadn't enough for the tack room
It was the best of times,
I still go there is my head,
My friend had a bag of coin in the desk nearby,
I saw her put it there and,
I took it, I don't know why,
They found me out, hung me dry,
From then on I tried not to pry,
Kids really know how to crucify.
It was the best of times,
I still go there in my head.
When my child's eye was pure,
Boys hard-wearing, still demure,
I used to think I would never be self-assured,
I'm still not,
Confrontation ties my insides in a knot,
But I live for those days,
When Saturday mornings meant cartoons,
Followed by hilariously misguided cooking attempts at noon,
That would get you later whooped past sense
All your friends watching from the fence.
It was the best of times,
I still go there in my head.
