The Wax and the Locker Hum

The municipal office smells of industrial soap,

that lemon-chemical burn that sticks to the throat.

It carries a memory devoid of any hope,

shoving a winter fear inside a heavy coat.

I passed the lockers and I heard the sound,

a low-volt vibration in the painted tin.

A soggy paper lay there on the ground

with red ink bleeding where the grade was in.

A jagged 'C' across the lined white sheet,

a failing mark that’s damp with melted snow.

I kept my eyes fixed firmly on my feet

the way I did twenty long years ago.