The hallway is a tunnel of lemonscented wax

The hallway is a tunnel of lemon-scented wax,

leading past the gym to a row of voting booths.

I peeked into Room 104, the lights killed,

the desks all pushed into a jagged huddle.

Bolted to the doorframe is that silver crank,

the heavy sharpener that used to eat our pencils

until the wood was smooth and the lead was a needle.

On the floor beneath it, a tiny mountain

of cedar shavings and graphite dust

has survived the janitor’s morning sweep.

I can still feel the vibration in my palm,

the way the handle would resist

until the point was sharp enough to draw blood.