by James Claffey

Where are the wads of gum thumbed to the undersides of ancient desks, each crusted  barnacle evidence of a bored teenager? Where are the pencils stuck in polystyrene ceiling tiles? Pacing the empty room, Zoom tiles like alphabetized gravestones to a lost year. Alone, my own prisoner, peering through the bars of the windows at the overgrown school garden and empty chicken coop.