I ride a white horse all day long.
At night my head spins.
My sister sells the tickets.
That’s why I can ride without paying.
She is different from them.
A dark beauty, from an old country.
We are beggars, that’s what’s expected.
I ride the white horse, at night
I sleep in the biology classroom.
The war has been forgotten by now.
People have moved on.
We are Gypsies, our home is
wherever we hang our hats.
That’s what’s expected.
The Council gave us the school
fifteen years ago.
I was born into this classroom which is my home.
This classroom, with a microscope
and maps of human bodies on the walls.
I know every bone in my body
by its name,
even the tiniest one,
the one my head spins around
as I sleep.
This is my How Writers Write Poetry Week 6 homework.