When I arch my back
so my face hovers close
Above the college ruled paper,
I narrow my shoulders
until the green fleece of my jacket
kisses at my red ears.

I move my body weight
to my left side, shifting
and wrapping my right foot
around the cold metal desk leg,
the hiss of the fluorescent
lights above licking a steady whisper.

I hear pens scratching permanent
ink onto dry paper and noses dripping
snot onto cheap Kleenex squares,
a melodic metronome racing
against the preset clock in my mind
I’ve ignored over the past four years.

Will it be worth it?
Thomas sits on my red ears
and whispers, reminding
that I have but one more semester.
Am I Dotstoyevsky?
Can I claim to be Milton?
Am I worth?