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C is for Cleaved
the oaks that line the avenue.
The old school stares
through bricks framed by town colors.
to pigtailed girls and crew cut boys,
to varnished seats in neat brown rows,
to a desk with the names of lovers to be
etched inside a pencil heart
carved in a quick secret
when faces turned to problems
chalked across the board.
to that little heart scraped into the veneer.
It belongs to you, you know.
Somewhere between lunch and recess
between letters and numbers,
I left it there for you.