ChalkA Poem by Ranger Kessel
She smelled like chalk
More of a wet pavement, humid afternoon, dirt under the fingernails, gravel in the knee, scraped elbow, dirty shoe, gum chewing, summer short, girl with a ponytail playing hopscotch smell. My imagination. Ten million years of evolution. Human industrial soap technology. A cloud of mysterious emanations. Calling me to her. I didn’t have to look out the window to know she was there. My stomach swallowing itself in her perfumed wake. Flip flops, or bare foot. Dinner splattered on my shirt or a phone call from Grandma. Didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered. I was there. Outside, she etched the pavement with her never ending supply of chalk. Slicking pictures for me. Butterflies, big, chunky letters. Shaded. Outlined. Neat. Loopy. Fun. I couldn’t hop. She taught me the magic of her groove. One day, she smelled the same. Only with tears. Her father, with suitcases. pushed her cloud away. To the back of his car. She never returned. Sun. Rain. Snow. Street sweeper. Leaves. The snap of school photographs. Ugly sweaters. Crooked teeth or bullying. Her pictures. Slowly washed away. Left behind, a nub of her chalk. Remnants of her smell captivated my heart. She never returned. © 2022 Ranger KesselFeatured Review
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Added on June 11, 2022Last Updated on June 12, 2022 |