The Time Machine

Get in it.
It doesn’t look like it has a chair but it does.
It doesn’t look like you will fit in it but you will.
Turn the key by turning the page.
You already set your coordinates –
you know where you are going.
And there is your seventh grade best friend –
she’s standing next to you in chorus, she’s
leaning against the wall in the long long corridor.
The locker clangs shut.
The altos sing their part.
Close the time machine. Get out before it’s too late.

Jessy Randall

If you've any comments on this poem, Jessy Randall would be pleased to hear from you.