If you don't mind,
brunette in row nine
and two quarters,
could you please stop asking why I'm sitting in?
Your eyes have explored me,
hands twisting into chemical equations
and inky nail polish. Ursula.
You're a chartist, a mapmaker, a
heartbreaker of weaker things than
girls and boys and dogs.
Your loafers dance across the
ugly golden tiles like impatient clock hands.
Your bare arms move to the drumbeat of your note taking,
your seduction salvation-- your eyes-- looking at me from prison window glasses and wondering why I'm so
free as to slide onto a back lab table
and silently, scientifically
observe a play playing out
in which you are merely an extra
and this class
is a sentencing hearing.