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.
