The Big Black Hall

By Meera Kumar

Trapped
In a sea of grass.
Fourteen kids.
All apart.
The sounds of lawnmowers, birds,
And ants feet crushing the russet dirt.
My feet demolish the bark,
As I sit in this cold ledge.
Students whining,
People scraping their legs,
A glance or two to the left,
Continuing to write,
The big,
Black hall
Stands before me.
If that one day I was held inside of it.
I wouldn’t last.
Freezing behind the charcoal poles.
Grasping this day,
And feeling lucky that I wasn’t on the other side of those bars.
A moment in the sun.
The wind whips my neck,
As my paper folds over my pen.
Seven minutes more
Until this gazing ends.
That big black hall,
Looking bitter and prestigious.
A few children groan,
While other’s minds are diligently functioning.
I realize that poems are difficult
And free verse is tough.
But once I got it,
It is all up to my pen.
Racing around to find my thoughts.
I came up with this.
Of how the big black hall,
Confined me of my own personal space.