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It was on the last day of school one year;
Leaving our top-floor journalism room,
I was the last one out.
Eager as I was to get the summer started,
I was a little reluctant to close the door,
To leave this lofty place.
This was the place where we scribbled and edited,
Where ideas were transmogrified into printed words:
Typo Heaven!
Next to the door sat an overloaded trash can;
Atop the heap sat a small torn cardboard box
Holding just one item.
I’d have passed it by without a second thought,
But it was intriguing, like a spiral seashell,
Like a paper slinky.
It might have been a roll of postage stamps;
It slithered like a snake in the box;
It caught my eye.
When I picked it up I saw in my hand a day’s work,
The harvest from a lineup of mixed-up subjects
Of our school photographer.
Now why would someone throw this in the trash?
And yet, why would anyone save it from the trash?
What would be the point?
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