He's singing along to his iPod,
an ear bud in the ear which the
teacher can't see –
putting it on pause when she
comes around to make sure
we're doing what we're
suppose to do.
"Shut up bitch, swallow."
Today's song is tomorrow's sin,
but he's singing along anyways.
"Get down on your knees,
and do whatever I please."
(They say rap is poetry, must
be really crappy poetry.)
Tap, tap, tap. Teacher's pencil is
going up and down on the desk.
Just didn't hit pause fast enough.

She's doodling in the margins,
hearts and the sort-of-such.
Is she wishing she was thrust
into one of those big red shapes?
Is she wishing she was loved?
Or is she "loved" but it's all just a
lie?
She's humming love songs under
her breathe – sing-along time to the
pictures folding out before her.
Teacher's glaring and her dreams
are discarded for schoolwork.
(Which one would you choose?)
She didn't dream fast enough.

They're laughing in the back,
talking in the back – what's this
year's latest gossip? Who's this
year's latest social outcast? Who's
this year's latest target for hate?
"I think, I think, I think." It should
be that one. Point at me, point at her,
point at him. What difference does
it make? We all end up crying in the
end.
But the ecstasy of planning to ruin
someone's life is rudely interrupted
but the teacher. "Does anyone pay
attention in this class? Why can't
you be more like her."
Point your finger, follow the gaze
and the snickering of the students.
Teacher's pet…but she's pointing
at me. Me, brainlessly doing my
schoolwork.

Oh no, dear teacher. I don't pay
attention, my head is in the clouds.
You just haven't caught me there yet.