I had an urge to erase the blackboard
Cover it with black chalk
But you know as I do there’s is no black, only white.
The flaky white sticks we scratch across the wall
Getting flatter, crumbling into faint little pieces.
Do you remember the texture of chalk?
The spotted shading the bordered edges
The powder on your fingers and the magical puff
after you dust your hands like a magician.
It came to mind, that day I left school
And was standing at the train platform,
Tattered notebook in hand,
Filling up with scribbled words,
Not yet presentable.