Burroughs ’93

The institution stands proud, aging under the morning fog
Its very presence boasting the emblem of structure
Hovering below are blind stampedes of former children
Running, wandering, tussling on the dew covered lawn

Chaos meets combustion as they filter into guidance rooms
Ears rest on backpacks and chins press against cold tables
Faces huddled, etching new expressions into wooden chairs
Quickly launching wet paper clusters into thin crust ceiling tiles

Lockers slam, high tops squeak, hallway policemen in desperate pursuit
Knees spark against elbows as bobbing heads push and sway in line
Amorphous extracts of hardened cheese pushed out on small paper trays
All hands grabbing for the plastic encased mountain of mini-milk cartons

Cafeteria freshmen lower their eyes as food fights blaze overhead
Others kick their lunch bags through the fences, under the dried leaves
Ball games replaced with high speed frenzies, court to court
Followed by aimless drills in green issued shorts, before the bell tolls

Then the final hour — spent in a colorless room, staring out the window
Watching between the wires in the glass as the bright cars pass by
Never learning the hidden reason to stay, leave, or come of age
Wedged five times a week, between bricks and chains at Burroughs.

– LB