Student Publishing Program ::

Rachel Davidow

My Torture Chamber

There’s this awful place
That I go to almost everyday
Where I am forced to sit
In a hard, plastic chair as blue as I feel.

The furnace sounds frightened
And blows bitter cold air.
The fluorescent lights flicker on and off
Because they too would rather be asleep.

The floor, the ceiling, and the walls
Are all made up of white tiles
With hints of off-white, and yellow
And gray like a rainy day.

As I look out the window, my heart sinks. I see the
Beautiful green grass and
The bright blue bleachers shining in the sun.
I look back down at my desk, which, like my chair, has uneven legs
And rocks back and forth
Like a crazy person trying to calm himself.
It has writing on it that I won’t even repeat.

I stare up at the clock, which is always in view
With a red second hand,
So I can count down all 25,200 seconds till the day is over.
This slow, torturous place
Prepares you for the real world.

[TABLE OF CONTENTS, LHS CLASS OF 2011 EDITION]