Gluey smiles that stick at the gates
Like how dad cleans the windows –
I’ve seen him on the day of the big tree;
Cloths and buckets, but no snow –
Still icy, the odd time you take me back.

In this building – perhaps just from outside –
The windows mute the whispers in sheen.
Pen digging.

The playground doesn’t really have play in it.
More of the kind of no breakfast shout.

I think filming your first day was ill-advised, Rosie.

You really weren’t having a nice time, book-bag drooping;
Less beam melting flame, more pocketed pencil.

Any impartial observer might’ve thought it too early
For uniforms and alignment.

It opens on the demands of a meandering murmur
And a fake cough.

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