School rooftop, 3:15,
sneakers dangling over the city’s sleepy dream.
Hisohkah breeze loops cherry-blossom beats,
WMD bass lifts the concrete off its feet.
White-line desks we tagged with glow,
turn into constellations only truants know.
Bell rings below—whatever, let it scream;
up here the sky’s a purple locker for our secret team.
Pop a soda sun, toast to never coming down—
graduation’s just a word for hitting the ground.