soaking deep into the classroom carpet
on day one:
‘Who are you?’
Who am I?
Spider-Man watch’d; shaved hair.
I’ve closed the door tightly
and bolted up my self:
please don’t, please don’t please don’t.
The smell of plastic covers and
freshly printed cover pages,
and Pritt glue – 40g – the big one,
an acrid cloud filling the room:
a smell that brings me back – still.
No one to play with,
but my shivering shadow,
day in and out –
wave to the metallic blue Citroën
each morning from Mrs Peterson’s window.
Maybe today the sunshine of friendship
can soak up the damp carpet.