Between Periods

The air is thick with the smell

of floor wax and the sour damp

of fifty unwashed sweatshirts.

A locker slams—

a heavy, pressurized crack

that vibrates in the soles of my shoes.

I walk the yellow safety line,

looking down at the scuffs

where a thousand rubber heels

have tried to pivot and run.

The bell is a high, electric scream

waiting to tear the silence open.