Carrie's Question

Tossing and turning and trying so hard to sleep - I could hear mom and dad arguing down the hall.
I wish they’d stop, because the boys might wake up, and I’m just too tired to get them back to sleep.  
Dad is telling mom that she has to stop drinking and using the rent money, and I know she’s crying.
Geeze, I’ve heard ‘em all, excuses from behind that damn door.

From behind the closed door creeps the sounds of poverty, echoes in my head  I think how great

that would be for personification, so I grab my journal to add that note. My pen’s stuck in the
crease of a poem.  I wrote this in class today as Ms. Patel droned on and on
about the beauty of poetry and the deeper meanings it contains.

Ms. Patel, sometimes poetry is just lines with meter and words that may or may not rhyme.  

Sometimes a phrase that you may think is a simile or metaphor is just a reflection
of the reality of the poet’s existence.

These were the introductory remarks I wrote in class.  I wondered if I should leave them or not.

I knew that Ms. P would fail me if I did, but they were my truth, and I couldn’t stand the idea
of erasing them.

I grabbed my crappy highlighter I had found in the hallway and thought about annotating the poem.  

Uugghh. I hate this. What I heard in my head was annotating per the instructions, and all too often,
I get the question from teachers about how I knew these things.  I know so many of them
think I’m stupid even though my grades don’t show it.

Coming up empty

In the land of plenty

Never ending days

And  tortured nights

Struggling just to struggle

No chance in the fight

Round and round she goes;

Where she stops . . .

Jaded now but once so real,

She’s always working, making deals

With life and fate, her frenemies,

Reaching beyond merely what she sees.

Coming up empty

In the land of plenty

Gruelling , thankless days

And long, sleepless nights;

Struggling just to struggle

No chance in the fight;

Round and round she goes…

Orchestral music and greasy fries

Grasping at nothing, too late to realize

The twin deniers fate and life

Throw the came, create the strife;

Round and round she goes…
One bill paid but two past due;

Looking always for one lost shoe

Life promises, but then fate steps in

Blocking all her attempts for just one win;

Round and round she goes…
Coming up empty

In the land of plenty;

Bored, apathetic days

And pain filled nights

Struggling just to struggle

No chance in the fight.

Round and round she goes,

Where she stops.

I make a few annotations on my poem, moving down the checklist of the assignment
before the echoing of poverty recedes into darkness once again.  

I flip backward in my journal until I find the journal prompt - the future you envision

becomes the reality you create - and for a brief second, I wonder if this may be true.  
Could I change my fate, my future, by just envisioning a different version?  Is it possible
to literally change the channel to a different program and change the future?

Quickly before I forget that thought, I jot it down on the edge of that page, lightly highlight it and

then dog-ear the page.  Ms. Rostakovich is bringing sub sandwiches for lunch tomorrow and
invited me to come practice some piano, so I roll over excited about asking her this question.  
As I doze off to sleep, finally, I hear the Mozart I’m learning playing as a basketball
bounces in a shadowy gym, and I hear the chorus change the channel and change your future.