Cinderblock Memory

The line for voting stretches down the hall

past lockers that are painted hospital green.

I rest my shoulder on the familiar wall

and feel the space that's opened up between.

It’s cinderblock, that bumpy, pitted skin

covered in a thousand coats of cream.

The same cold divots where I once tucked in

my head to hide away a messy dream.

My thumb finds out a jagged little chip

I used to pick at when the bell would ring.

It’s strange how fast the decades start to slip

and leave you touching such a solid thing.