There was a little girl went forth one day in the wild world all alone;
and the first object she’d look upon, that object was the alarm;
and the alarm became a part of her, that object she became;
and she opened her eyes to face it for that day or cycle of days or year or cycle of years.

Eating a stale breakfast in the driveway became part of this child,
and the bus, and the locker, and the lock, twist left, right, left,
and the singsong of foolhardy curses shouted carelessly in the hallway,
and the classrooms, the cages. 
And the smacking rulers, and the thunder of voices in frivolous debate,
and the ever-tapping pencils, and ever-slower clock,
and the books, read, but not of free will, with the desired packed away on the shelf at home,
the shelf sparse of a space without dust.
And the moisture and pungent smell of the gym, and the cafeteria next to the gym- not assuaging the drop-dead smell in the least, and the tap, tap, tap, of basketballs on the sun-baked asphalt.

And the bell, the finality of the day, and a latchkey-kid’s comfort,
and the long-awaited silence of a lonely 3 o’clock home- all became a part of her.