Elegy for 3rd Floor Carr

The stretching stairwell

Big windows would pour in light

The climb up a long and sweaty process

The sour candy of every student and teacher

Harsh at first, but deliciously worth it

A long hallway: one sided

Stretching across

Four rooms holding

The Gods of our school

The four teachers that

Everyone wants to hang out with

This floor a Mecca for

High school cool

Each room, wide

High ceilings with

Big windows that

Stretch up and across

Leaving a sense of nostalgia

Even on your first day

 

These classes are history

People, places, and sarcastic commentary

Every mouth cracks jokes

And teaches us the things

That we really need to know

I remember the first time I went up

It was before school, a morning club,

And I was a baby, a freshman

Bringing vanilla chai to my sister.

The room was filled with celebrities

And they were in the penthouse

And I couldn’t wait until I was that cool

And I would have my own club

Up in the only place for the coolest kids.

 

But even heaven can’t last

Because now the 3^rd floor

Sits uninhabited

A mere fossil of

Its once great glory

Aching to be visited again

By every true believer

In Durham School of the Arts

 

Soon it will be torn down

Like the rest of our

Dangerous and homey

Julian S. Carr building

 

Closing of the third floor

Has already bruised our hearts

The wrecking ball that will destroy this

Will smash our minds

Covered in lead paint,

Asbestos and the air conditioners

That shoot ice shards at us

I took a trip up the elevator once

And looked around the hallway

That means so much to all of us.

Most of the doors were locked

But one room was not.

I took a deep breath in

Of the famous and old fashioned air

And my eyes examined every detail

And I prayed that tomorrow

We’d all be back there

Making jokes and complaining

About the hike up.

 

I don’t get my senior year

On the 3^rd floor

I don’t get any freshman

Bringing me vanilla chai

Looking wide-eyed at me

And my friends like we’re superstars.

And I certainly never get

To go on field trips to

The nearest café with my

AP European History class.

 

The times are different now

We are forced into

A shiny new box:

The New Building

 

Children don’t learn respect

For the seniors in that building

Non-curriculum lectures are hushed

By authority strolling in

Every class period.

 

Creativity can’t plant itself here

The dirt is tightly packed

And sealed over with pesticidal plastic

When the 3^rd floor was a

Loose and healthy dirt bed

For the uncommon minds

To explode in a garden

Of originality, bugs and all.

 

 

 

 

There is nothing more we can do

But rip the New Building plastic

And churn the dirt ourselves

And pray that something

Inspirational will still grow.