As the street car persistently creaks
I sweat streetcar tokens
Backpack. Laptop. Cord.
Wet dew and grass crawl up my
legs
Residue from my sprint
Five minutes
“Why can’t he just leave his keys in the door?”
As grass stains bleed through the white
Overpriced
Socks
We tunnel through oaks
Smushed against strangers
“Hey ladies, how do you…”
Lurch
Three minutes
As a salmon colored runner
Competes with crunching gears
Wheels. Industry.
The basilisk of St. Charles ferries children to school
One minute
Gates! Cupola! We have made
it to the Promised Land.
Imhereprettypleasedontgivemeamark.
Brooke, age 16