Small

Every room is bigger
when you walk into
elementary school.
With a bookbag like a 
turtle shell,
and cubbyholes.

We walk into great, cavernous halls,
our keds' laces strung with beads,
our superhero watches
telling the wrong time.

Learning to write neatly
in big workbooks,
your little lefty hand
struggling to make the book lie down.
And the teacher says,
"I know this is hard for you,
but you're doing a good job".

Concerts in the gym-ateria
parents with big camcorders
beaming in the crowd,
as we stand upon risers
and sing our best,
all the wrong notes
to recorded music.

We all smile
and laugh and go our for
ice cream after.
It melts all over your 
small and dextrous hands.

Dropping your tray on the
lunchroom floor,
not making the base in
kick-ball,
these hardships
grew anxiety.

In rooms with fifty-foot ceilings
and beautiful teachers,
reading us stories
about the days to 
befall us in time.
But for now,
we sit in a lop-sided
circle and 
hold the palms of our
best friends.