The smell of the wax and the industrial soap

The smell of the wax and the industrial soap

settles like silt on the lockers and tile.

I’m carrying a lunch and a thin shred of hope,

walking a mile in a very short while.

A teacher’s voice drones through a heavy fire door,

a muffled, rhythmic thrum in the throat of the hall.

A yellow pencil rolls across the floor,

hitting the baseboard and ending its fall.

It’s the quiet of a hive when the bees are all in,

a vacuum of pressure that holds back the day.

I’m an intruder with a paper bag and a grin,

watching the dust motes drift slowly away.