There is a man in my class who looks like you.
His skin is like skim milk,
His voice projects across the room when he speaks.
He knows everyone in class but sits alone.
                      

There is a woman in my class who daydreams.
Once the talking head begins to speak she flees.
Her gaze is connected to a tiny pale desk,
That she secretly hates.
                      

At the head of the classroom is where the Doctor sits.
Sometimes he parades by speaking of Mandeville and bees.
His eyes snow down from time to time,
A gentle two second glimpse of the cotton covered ****.
                     


I sit in the seventh row out of eight.
The eighth seat back out of eight.
I am on the third floor out of four.
One foot in the classroom and one foot out the door.