My School Was In A Field

I think I wrote this sometime last year.

My School Was In A Field

I wonder what it would be like to ride a bus to class,

green seats,

gum stuck underneath

or walk, 

each dark new day,

backpack clad 

beside streets.

My school was in a field.

A Dodge Caravan carried me there.

Twelve years old I would have preferred camels,

shoes with bells, 

traversing moor and mountain,

rather than passing

blurry rows of corn.

Now I sit and stare at blades of grass growing between cobblestones half-covered with asphalt

waiting for the next icy afternoon.