New erasers.
Ten pencils, lead number two.
Scent of ripe peaches.
Pent up quiet afternoons.
Callouses on the bottoms
of your feet.
A note from your mother
you’ll pretend
not to read.
The salt lick
of curiosity.
Left over sun.
Blank notebooks, three.
The drop kick
of love.
Ah, I can almost smell retirement all over again!