Mesh wire laced windows
with pulley closures
like Popeye the Sailor Man
rigged them up
sun streaming on the gym floor
basketball goals sans nets
inner city school in a town
that doesn't know it's a city
disconnected masses
someone asks
"Howya doin' Miss?"
if they slip by
they'll wander the dungeons
of this old school
linger in its haunted auditorium
spirits leftover from the 1920s
are we here the sum total
of its morter and brick?
living off the glorified past
of its now defunct alumni
no one here drives those
oak-lined streets now
glimpse through the spruce hedge
that deflects the wind
see a real life hustle outside
every year closes out the former
as decades carve themselves
upon stone memorabilia
and those that remain
climb the fracture-laden cracked steps
meeting the struggle
transcending time
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