For twelve years, just past the point when summer’s warm belly began
to slide its slow way to the other side of the earth,
the evening would arrive that was

an acknowledgement, at last,
of all the pop blue posters and jitter-fast radio ads;

the annual reconciliation that endings weren’t so bad, because
they carried beginnings on their backs;

and the simple and temporary satisfaction of my love
for smooth and regular things.

To hold the even-spiraled plastic-covered straight-edged notebooks,
not yet creased or marked, perfectly flat with the papers
still sticking together at the edges – crisp, pristine,

made me feel like we were perfect puzzle pieces,
their sharp edges molded into my soft hands.

And the blemish-free pink erasers whose tapered
ends were as yet un-dulled, whose name brand
spiraled across their fronts, declaring their prestige,

objects created for their symmetry, their dense elasticity,
their powdery smooth divinity.

Then every utensil for making marks –
unsharpened pencils, capped pens, and a 24-pack of crayons,
sorted snugly by color, uniform in shape with little heads pointing skyward,
firm and light in my grasp, but –

These were the enemies of the notebooks and eraser.
These were the characters who would trigger the fall from grace
in their selfless quest to fulfill their duty –

Just as we did when we scribbled and blotted,
and learned early that perfection does not last.