- Sara Moinian
Afterschool
By: Michelle Nedboy
It reeks of applesauce
and kid sweat, the tables pushed
out to the sides like bleachers.
Stacks of abused board games
get brought out and plunked;
there are never enough pieces.
Dunked, by bored genius,
we turn a chess set into a disco,
lose the pieces like it’s the
Scooby show. Ruh-roh.
Every day is Christmas
‘cause we get a second recess.
We bound up the light blue stairs
with its chipping banisters.
We skip across the blacktop’s cracks,
stop and squat when we feel like it,
watch the bugs crawl
then squish ‘em up,
their bodies spitting
bug ketchup.
We get cold but run
to make ourselves hot,
our hoodies tied in loose-fitted knots,
the cool October breeze kisses our knees
the sinking sun turning us into trees.
We eat leaves but spit them out,
pocket rocks and turn into scouts,
who look for curse words
they daren’t shout.
Inside the windows are
sheeted with black,
the cafeteria a lightbox;
we flit around like moths
with orange basketballs
‘til our hands chap.
Kids get taken home,
the mountain of
jackets and backpacks
eroding to none.
The darkness outside
fuzzes my sight around the edges,
as if I’m back in my room
imagining witches,
my vision useless.
But the warmth of my dad’s car
gives me peace, the blinking buttons
and dials evoking sleep.
I don’t fall asleep, but I dream,
as my eyes track the smudgy street lamps
searching for Halloween,
Sting humming in the background
to his own lazy beat.
