Poem: January 9, 2026

Fun Hall Friday

On Fridays before first period,

as the students drag their bleary

teenage brains from locker

to cafeteria to classroom, perambulating

with their friends or shuffling

their zombie shuffle, shields up,

lost in their earbuds and phones, 

my fellow teachers and I fill our

hallway with absurdity. Every

Friday, a new version of absurdity, 

a weekly hope to help our students

find some joy within this school.

We roll out the stereo and the

party lights, or we fire up all

of the bubble machines- an ocean

of bubbles, a wall to pop through,

as they head to Algebra or Art II,

or we decorate the hall like a jungle

and play Jurassic Park, or a beach

to free us from the reality of winter, 

or a college football tailgate, 

a nineteen-eighties sleepover with

sleeping bags and popcorn and MTV, 

or a life-sized game of Clue–

each of us a character– Scarlet, 

Peacock, Mustard, Plum, and White,

and before Christmas we sing carols, 

and we haunt the hallway on Halloween, 

and we yell out Happy Friday, Bears,

as the students pass by and we

try to find a way to get them to crack

a smile, even as they roll their eyes.