September 1st
Twisting, wringing,
Plummeting to the earth
With no parachute
I’ll land on my feet
(I always do, though my knees crumble
from repeated slamming into rock)
With my hand in the air
Trumpeting my smarty-pants
For all the world to mark
With a sneer and a smirk But
My pens wait neatly for me
Ready to bleed my soul onto the page
Crisp notebooks are my friends
More than any jealous child
The brand new backpack
Sits eagerly in the corner
As leaves tumble softly
So do