Julianne Palumbo
My eyes glare down
today,
like headlights
counting the cracks
in the fog-colored sidewalk
that drags me into school.
It’s easier to count
than to smile and pretend
I care enough about anyone
to say ‘hello.’
Man, why does it have to be
so cold?
I want to turn around,
get back in my car
and cruise on home.
My knuckles stiffen
inside my pockets
so I can’t even
clench a fist.
I clench my teeth
instead.
Inside, she’s standing in my way,
again,
blocking my locker,
with her stuff
all over the floor.
56