Living in a big city is not who I am
but life doesn't always give us what we want
I remember Grandma's Montana farm
and I go there in my mind when things are rough
Grandma was a little thing, not five feet tall,
but she had the courage of a lion all her years
We went there to live when I was five years old
I was dying from the coastal air and was very frail
My brother was a baby and the apple of my eye
We rode there in a chartreuse Ford, bundled
into blankets...there were no seatbelts back then
The wonder of all that 100 acres to roam and play
Chickens so sweet clucked round my little feet
The geese, Candy and Dandy, were terrorists,
hiding behind the root cellar and darting out
to chase me to the outhouse beyond the shed
Rosie the runaway horse chased cars
Grandpa made flapjacks and those not eaten
were put on the cupboard and I ate them cold...
Maybe heaven will be my Grandma's farm...

Tedious and tiring.  Arrayed before me like a king’s court, books open, but eyes on me.  ******* on the **** of my wisdom, absorbing little.  A lazy October sun peeks through the windows, highlighting the auburn hair of the girl in the front row...the one who sits, legs slyly parted, hoping I will notice her lace ******* and...
But no, I am sated and cannot rise to interest for her.  Silly thing, thinking her ****** and obvious try at seduction will rouse me. Yes, she is a pretty specimen, but I have a garden of such flowers. Wilted roses that give me no more pleasure.
Soon the bell will ring and these pathetic creatures will pour out the door and I will wait for the next herd, bored by their very existence.  I feel like a cowherd readying to lead the bored and boring cattle to sentient awareness, dim though it may be.  

I do not bother to look up.  There is no need - they are all the same.  I begin to lecture when there is an interruption.  Can these creatures not get to class on time?
Hoping to berate the latecomer, to vent my squirming spleen and make the day less cloying...  She is there...this new student.  This rose who must be in my garden of perfection.  Breath leaves my lungs and I am struck dumb.  I, who am strong and stalwart...a prime alpha male am rendered a stuttering child.
Her name - Rose McClellan.  My Rose.  She hands me her class card and chooses a desk far in the back.  My heart is beating loudly, my hands have a sheen of sweat.  Nothing about this day is ordinary now.