Memory is Always Cursive

After recess we sat in rows under dim light,
      bent over desks, scratching loops across   
"Coupon Bond"--what we called unlined paper,
        drawing paper, printer paper. Pink
eraser-capped pencils were Mongol No. 2.
        Following the letters drawn on the blackboard:
G with its upward sweep into one tiny ear then another,
        H like two twigs tied with an artful loop of twine.
I still remember the smell of hallways and bathrooms
        just scrubbed with dirty water and Pine-Sol;
kelp-like strands of vague homeroom projects 
        lined up on the windowsills to dry,  
macramé braids wilting on the counter. But I have
        no nostalgia for the ways in which 
only the beautiful ones among us got gold stars, got 
        picked "star dancer" or president. The  
quiet ones, invariably forgotten, were those
        reading pocketbooks under their desks, 
slipping jokes and puns from hand to hand.  
        Telling of this time from the future, they 
understand everything was practice for finding
        value in the overlooked. For instance, unorthodox 
wainscoting versus plain seats of iron and wood, 
        xyloid but without scrolls or flourishes. Or 
yarrow nodding in thin grass by the trash bins; flies 
        zapping, heady from the smell of hidden sugars.