The Class of 1988
A poem about the Gen-Xer's that feel not seen by the world
They painted
out the ‘88’!
Not
any of the others
’87, ’86, and ’85
they all stayed until summer.
Just OUR ‘88’!
In the middle of our senior year –
the reason was not clear -
does that mean we don’t exist?
It was
put there -
on the chimney
in the middle of the night -
B I G, R E D, B O L D
on a black background
for all to see…
They painted
out the ‘88’!
I guess
it means we don’t exist.
Are we ghosts?
In empty lockers,
empty classrooms,
teachers talking to nobody…
There’s no Senior class this year because
THEY PAINTED US OUT OF EXISTENCE!
About the Creator
Anne Walker
I write personal poetry, short stories, and some political/social commentary on human events happening right now in our lifetime.
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