My Prison

Written September 7, 2001. My apologies to Pleasant Hill Adventist Academy: I really grew to love the school in later years, and this is not a reflection on the school itself, but on how much time I spent there in sixth grade.

There are no bars of sturdy iron,
But thick glass and shades.
There is no need of ball and chain,
But piles of unsorted files.
There are no doors of heavy metal,
But wood and glass, you see;
My rations are not meager bread,
But pizza, hay stacks, and more.
There are no jailers, grim or else,
But teachers and parents.
I am not told to push an oar,
Or break up rocks,
Or prune trees,
But file and grade papers,
From 8 AM to 10 at night.
I cannot leave this place.
This classroom is my only world,
I know no world than school.
I see my friends go home and play,
But I stay here.
I see my friends go to summer camp,
But I stay here.
An eternity may pass,
In which time they will prosper,
But I will stay here.
School I will take on.
For I will be a teacher (most likely)
Lacking any song.

This is a rude insult to the beautiful art of teaching, which I would consider an honor to join someday. And as for that school in which I once felt trapped--how dearly I wish I could call it my home again. So writes an exile of a city, Pleasant Hill, which I love, where I no longer feel welcome. My new poems, now that I have been to summer camp, joined a profession other than teaching, and seen the world, may mourn instead the loss of the only place where I have felt the label "home" applied.