-sing-

I was fascinated

by the sound made

when stepping on a slightly

lifted bubble of kitchen linoleum.

It was a tactile experience

whenever an area of linoleum

lost is ability to adhere.

the best was when it stuck

to the floor for a moment

then clicked away, setting

itself up for another run.

I’d spend time

in the corner of a room

pushing plier handles inward

again and again, staring at the space
which wouldn’t close.

when Miss Pollard's chalk first tapped

the blackboard script between each word,—

that was fascinating sound.

and then the morning arrival

of Bernadette Baker,

shuffling her starchy dress

across my desk on the way to her own.

what a sweet breeze she made

when she spun to sit behind me.

she smelled

like ivory soap.

she smelled
better than Norena Ferreira.

she was like

an anticipated popsicle in June,
better than hopping the fence,
cooler than a dive into the red-
tinctured water of "Musical Beach".
she had this attitude about her.
she had a calling.

she had blonde hair and eyes of blue.

or so I sing.