School Days

Freshly-sharpened pencils rot
on the winding path: Woody
wands, now obsolete. I pretend
to like these new plastic shafts
but they slip between my fingers
and always snap at the point
of no return

where my pink jumper stars three bunnies
who boogie to the rhythm – flippity flop –
of pigtails striking the puffy sleeves
like the sporadic tap of the toy
drum I no longer play. I carry
these memories in my brown
bag, heavy on my shoulder. They drown
in the sea of gummy post-its, crinkled papers,
jagged books

as tinny children’s voices chant
the alphabet: “A for apple”
(or abstract). “B for ball”
(or bologna). “C for candy”
(or concrete). I bite
into my bologna sandwich
but these mismatched
breads leave a foul taste
in my mouth.

ma, me, mi, mo, mu.
I know my blends and so do you:
Magical merry-go-rounds might
motivate musicians. To do what? Funny
how phonics fails to flood the parched,
silent shadows.

C-A-T. Cat. A sound born
of meow and sly eyes. Sharp
angular edges. Soft,
open middle, like Alli’s
kitty whose razor claws and piercing
eyes conceal a soothing purr.

Today I chew my plastic dagger
and wonder how to capture
the feline's arched spine
in a linguistic snapshot. I spend
a moment searching for the perfect
word that floats in my bag, just out of reach.

The lead snaps in mid-sentence.