Posted: September 29, 2010 in Burn Poetry
Tags: , , , ,

Numbly, dumbly staring at
carpeted floor.
The rug is nasty.
A tan mess of too-corporate
that were probably tagged as
“soothing” by some prick with a psych degree.
I’d look somewhere else,
but the professor’s gaze searches our small crowd;
a bear-trap of eye contact
waiting to be
I shift my body low,
prone on my cool plastic desk,
staying hidden behind the
attentive girl
whose brown curls waterfall to her shoulders.
She nods astutely,
brunette curtains
parting in head-shaking’s breeze.
I dig deeper into my graphite,
ill-padded foxhole, readying for
Canadian Lit’s suicide charge.
The professor shifts in her chair,
rhetorical rhetoric
going unanswered.
I mirror her shift;
a cross-classroom reflection.
She cracks a joke.

I check my watch.

Thirteen minutes to go.
I bob and weave, dip and shift,
dodging her eyeline;
playing rope-a-dope;
the Muhammad Ali of
room 35, Andrews Hall.

“What would you say about contemporary Native American Lit?”

My gaze slides back to
mottled carpet as
the girl with curls moves,
revealing my position.
My cover’s blown.
I search for the “eject”
fumbling to hide my naked ignorance of
contemporary Native American Lit.
The dude nearest the door throws out an answer.

I check my watch.

  1. Sue Tolles says:

    those small classes really make it hard to hide. I’m sure you have something to contribute other days

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