Wow, is this poem bitchy. I have some unexpressed anger, I think.


Neverland

Juli Betts –
we called her Mrs.
can’t have actually been fond
of adolescents

in between corralling the trumpets and
saxophones into the
orchestra pit

she lectured us Lost Boys
(75% female)
“Watch – this part where
Peter
tells Wendy
she’s too old
to come back to Neverland –”

this is the line that will
shove a knife
right into their hearts.
We’ve got to get it right, kids,
shove it in and twist it,
make your parents cry.”

In high school, she watched us
meander across the soccer field
with tubas, flutes and crimson flags
eyes on our feet, not following her hands
sketching out the count.

She would bellow,
“Do we need an extra three hours of practice tonight?”
as we failed to duplicate
the University of Maryland’s
fight song
to her precise specifications.

Our buses caravanned to Georgia, to Orlando,
James Madison,
Norwalk, Connecticut
in search of even an Honorable Mention.
We came home empty handed, knees muddy and backs sore
but a wall full of trophies wouldn’t have been enough
for a ticket back to Neverland.