The clap of erasers is gone.
Out the classroom window, in the schoolyard
the formulae, the unconformable matrix
flying off — gone:
ten words of the week,
the miscreant’s penance,
the I wills and I will nots
of it gone — the drumbeat,
the dust that settles
on your corduroys,
on your lips if the wind is right.
Taste it — chalk:
all of a day on your lips
right now, dry as the shells
of every miniscule sorrow
pulverized, scratched, recited
and since wiped away.

Image: Roman Mager on Unsplash

4 Thoughts

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