Ghosting

Discarding the named books upon the desk
I stare out at the littered figures on the field
Then slumping down upon the swivel chair I spin
And squint straight at the ghosting on the board
A cry echoes from a girl passing the class outside;
"This is the last time I'll ever see this dump"
And suddenly - I'm sitting on the curb,
Emblazoned in a sribbled signatured white shirt
As if I could reach my way back to the past
And erase all the wasted spaces I have left
I stand and grasp the black, white-board marker
And begin to trace the letters on the board.