Orange Stub

The last box went,

left an empty hall.

Just one bare bulb,

a faint light on the wall.

That rectangle,

where a picture used to hang,

now ghost-bright,

a silent, echoing bang.

Under the kickboard,

a speck of orange caught my eye.

A broken crayon,

left to dry.

A dull stub,

forgotten in the dust.

Some kid's bright hope,

or simply childhood's rust.

I left it there.

A final, quiet sweep.

No one to play with,

nothing left to keep.