Between Classes

The heavy door swung open, just a crack.

That smell. Floor wax, industrial clean,

and something else beneath it, something old.

Fear? Sugar?

Fluorescent hum, a low, electric drone.

The scuffed linoleum stretched long,

a tunnel of a thousand small collisions.

Echoes of lockers, slamming shut.

Empty, now. But I could see

the press of bodies, heat and awkwardness.

The urgent whispers, the contained explosions

of small, terrible joys.

Bulletin boards, faded corners,

curled paper,

dead announcements.

No escape.