Olfactory

I pulled the box across the concrete floor,

the cardboard groaning like a closing door.

The flap came loose with a dry, metallic snap,

releasing years of dust from a long and quiet nap.

It’s the smell of the closet where the coats were hung,

a sharp, cold scent from when the world was young.

There’s a math book here with a broken, cloth spine,

trapping gray lint in a thick, uneven line.

I can’t name the spice or the chemical sting,

but it tastes like the panic that the school bells bring.

It’s a ghost in the basement, a hand on my chest,

telling me I haven't quite finished the test.