Springtime, senior year.
The whiteboard I usually
scribble with questions that have easy answers—
Best Disney villain,
Marshmallow peeps—yes or no,
Marvel? DC?—Now, one smart, anxious senior
has taken it over.
Each morning
she updates the board with how
many days till graduation
erasing yesterday
and its number
with the side of her left hand
stained green for hours—
With her other hand she writes
the new number in fluorescent green
Some days
she writes while complaining about us—this school
full of teachers and students she has outgrown
Other days, she writes on the edge of tears—sentiment
or fear of the future, that translucent figure
hiding on the far side of the board, the blank side
where changes hover
those possibles the future is holding,
ready to hand to her
Its arms capacious enough to hold a future
for her, for all of them, for each of us
Puff Of Smoke Poems 