James B. Kuhl III
Free Writing
Here’s
what I don’t understand:
When
we go to Washington,
in
the spring,
all
of us,
the
whole eighth grade—
“The
annual visit
to
our nation’s capital,” you say—
why
do you arrange
the
seats on the buses
the
way you do?
I
don’t understand
why
I have to sit there
for
seven hours
with
kids I never talk to,
never
even look at,
not
even when some
stupid
teacher puts us in a group
and
tries to make us
work
together,
kids
I’ll never see again,
for
as long as I live,
kids
I hate,
so
help me, God.
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