Comments

The cardboard box smells like a basement floor,

full of construction paper and dried glue.

I pulled out a slip of paper

dated nineteen-ninety-four.

The crease is deep and stained a brittle yellow

where I folded it down to the size of a matchbook

so it would disappear into the lining of my coat.

I didn't want anyone to see the 'C'.

Below the grades, in a neat, looped hand,

the teacher wrote that I was always drifting.

"Distracted by his own thoughts," it says.

Thirty years later, the ink is still dark,

and I’m still staring out the window,

waiting for the bell to let me out.