By Charles M. Sumid     Copyright 2025     Written 2004

Morning ritual:
she checks each pocket,
straightens the post-it notes in rainbow order,
tests her favorite pen three times
to make sure the ink still flows.

Across town, her daughter
checks her own pockets
for yesterday’s treasures:
acorn cap, foil wrapper
folded into a tiny silver square.

She arrives while the office sleeps,
fluorescent lights still warming up,
her footsteps the only sound
in this landscape of empty desks,
each one a small nation
waiting for its citizen to return.

The child arrives while the classroom drowses,
morning light just finding the reading corner,
the hamster still curled in cedar shavings.

She stakes her claim with one jade plant,
ceramic pot chosen
for its perfect shade of teal,
the desk corner marked by coffee rings
where no one else may venture.

The child claims her space
with dinosaur keychains,
a name tag in purple marker,
the small shelf marked ADDYSON
where her backpack lives
from nine to three.

Inside the desk drawer:
emergency snacks, spare glasses,
photo of herself at five
with gap-toothed grin.

Inside the backpack:
broken crayon, library book about volcanoes,
rock from recess
she’s certain contains gold.

This six-foot cubicle
where she is queen of quarterly reports,
keeper of the morning calm,
guardian of proper formatting.

This four-foot corner
where she is queen of quiet time,
keeper of the crayon box,
guardian of found treasures.

Lunch hour:
she eats at her desk,
builds walls from manila folders
while emails ping like rain.

Lunch hour:
she trades half her sandwich for pudding,
builds kingdoms from carpet squares
where only friends may enter.

End of day:
she waters the jade,
arranges tomorrow’s files,
touches the photo lightly.

End of day:
she packs carefully,
library book first (don’t bend corners),
checks three times
that her rock is safe
in the smallest pocket.

That girl who saved rocks,
who knew they contained gold,
who was right about everything
that mattered.