and somehow never learned
that the classroom is not a world.
Is this thing on?
The classroom is not a world.
It's a little cramped, industrious,
clean-smelling, no doubt
to cover up something sinister.
She stands on the pinhead of it,
asking about cultural icons.
She enjoys the feeling of paper
stretched across her hands,
the smooth sheet of trees
stacked in her lap.
But the thing I fear most
is that somewhere in her
P.h.Mind
she thinks I'm sitting here for her,
fingers twirling, eyes snowed over.
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