Thursday, March 25, 2010

kindergarten dropout

When I was four-going-on-five,
on my way to kindergarten,
a gophersnake stretched itself across the fireroad
and I was too terrified to step over it.
I managed to step over the snake once
but when it happened again,
the snake stretching out his long green coolness across the road,
I dropped out of kindergarten.
I simply wouldn't go. My grandmother relented,
my tantrums verged on archetypal hysteria,
and so I was a kindergarten drop out.
It was a mile to the highway to catch the bus—
and I was a very young kindergartner
so I often got lost along the way.
My grandmother did not walk me to the bus stop.
She figured I'd manage on my own.
But it was a terribly long way,
an infinite ribbon of road with myriad country distractions.
I remember catching the big yellow bus once.
A sea of hostile faces and an irate bus driver
who didn't like to wait. That sealed my fate.

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