Sitting in the shade of a
swiftly
wilting
magnolia tree
with my favorite journal
(the one
with the painted dandelions and blue butterflies)
and my closest friends,
was the moment I admitted to myself
'I wish I was someplace else'.
And beneath
the tacky layer of bawdy jokes and choking laughter,
we were all counting off the day's till summer.
On the other side
of the chain link fence,
cars were
sliding down the road
past the imposing gated mansion
It was a sunny afternon
usually
meant for poetry
and cloud gazing,
but I was too
distracted
by the round, plump possum
that lay stubbornly
fixed to the curb.
I dream of becoming a writer or seeing the world.
Is it too much to hope for both?