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Kayla Davito Poem
Orange! What a fun color for a house, orange. I cannot name many others so daring.
Palm trees lines the driveway as our RV rumbled in, my cousins and I staring,
At our grandparent’s Florida house, the best part of the year,
It’s short, squat, perfect, and the ocean very near.
The backyard is a plot of sand, a hammock guards the corner,
I was approximately thirteen, maybe a little older,
When they said Gma and Papa had moved to a new house down the street,
The house is tall with spiraling staircases; it’s clean and white and neat.
Now when we fly into town we pass the orange house on our way to the white,
I can’t help but do a double take, it really is a sight.
The orange is dull and faded, the green more prominent instead,
As the winding plants and palm trees start to hide, they slowly start to spread,
The backyard is a patch of beige, tumbled with weeds,
No sign of life or purple treasure chests we used to play hide-and-seek.
Copyright © Kayla Davito | Year Posted 2022
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Kayla Davito Poem
Dear freshman me,
Why didn’t you go watch Powder Puff? I promise, it’s really fun. Your classmates darting across the field for a once-a-year-event that you’ll only get once more of in your high school career?
Speaking of, freshman me, hug your friends more often, and hang out outside of school, because starting in March of next year, you won’t be able to for a while.
Girl, nobody is looking at how your silver homecoming high heels “clash” with your gold dress, no one noticed the piece of hair you forgot to straighten.
But I wish you had taken notice of the colorful banners that guarded the main staircase reading “Trivia Night”. I wish you had gone to Mr. THS, even if you’ve never spoken to any of those boys before.
They say it’s the best four years of your life, but how can you complain that it's not when you’ve never tried to make it so?
I have some good news for you, freshman me.
You go to Powder Puff this year. You’re right on the field with your camera as yearbook editor.
You’re busy as often as you can stand it, October was a blackout BINGO card where every single day had an event.
Senior homecoming was a blast, and you care so little about your footwear that you trade the heels for tennis shoes, don’t mind when you get crushed by a passing crowd surfer, let alone your hair.
The play was amazing this year. You’ll be glad you went. With Nate, no less, who you’ll have known from your first day of preschool until your last day of high school, but had drifted apart because of lack of overlapping classes.
You still have no classes with him, freshman me, but you hang out almost every week. Yesterday, he brought you Starbucks after you made a passing comment about how tired you were.
My advice to you, younger me, is to go to the events. See your friends when you can.
Reach out and make new ones. Keep a planner and thank your Link Leaders- you’ll be one someday.
Stay on top of your homework and go to as many ridiculous clubs that pop up.
Freshman me, in a few months I’ll be a freshman again, and I hope I take this advice with me
When I go.
Copyright © Kayla Davito | Year Posted 2022
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Kayla Davito Poem
London
Past meets present meets future,
Smoothed pavement meets uneven cobblestone, water filtering through the divots accumulated from consistently dull weather days,
Tall buildings, cathedrals, skyscrapers, each holding different people, stories,
Short buildings, flats, pubs, filled with red-faced arguments over the classification of ‘chips’ in fish and chips,
Bumbling tourists getting pickpocketed on the Tube, an expat know-it-all watching from a cafe, a local haughtily observing it all as they speed-walk past,
The ferry putters by, the captain repeating his script and jokes he probably now hears in his sleep from the repetition, repetition, repetition,
“How can you tell the tourists from the locals? Wave and see who bothers responding,”
The people on board cackle because it’s their first time hearing it, and “Oh, Mark, dear, can we please tip him a little extra? He was just too kind,”
The London Eye keeps turning, blinking as the days pass, blinded by the cherry red buses that shock against the gray concrete,
The cars keep left, the people who have left are replaced on the next flight over,
London
Copyright © Kayla Davito | Year Posted 2022
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