Hallways
When the children are packed in their buses
I walk and sweep up from the day.
Love notes, homework, and food wrappers
like dead leaves on the floor of hallways.
Once full of life, and hormones raging,
the hallway echoes with each stroke.
I stop, pick up something I see,
giggling like I’ve just heard a joke.
A small pendant with a faded photo,
of two boys sitting on top a truck.
I glance briefly over my left shoulder,
in my pocket it slides, I’m in luck.
Another trophy from the hallway,
A trinket for me to have instead;
of the brats who litter my school,
who I would much rather see dead.
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