by Rob Simpson
Staring out the window, my senior year of high school,
I would hope a friend walked by.
When he or she did, I’d have an excuse
to ask to use the bathroom, run my schoolmate down,
sneak off to smoke a cig.
Or talk about boobs. Or whatever
a seventeen year old kid does during algebra class
instead of algebra.
Those equations made no sense to me. The dual plated
window was my instructor in that class.
Ms. Marks. I still remember her name because
she knew I tuned her out utterly and completely.
Her eyes showed her distaste.
I watched flowers bloom and rainshowers drive
against the sidewalk between buildings.
I watched spring’s act in its pastoral entirety, the preamble to summer.
I bore witness to the falling leaves, autumn’s hail to
winter’s arrival. My neck stayed kinked to that side,
staring outside the window. And now,
almost two decades later, I wish I could find
Ms. Marks and tell her that I learned
the most important lesson in her class.
Though I don’t use a lick of algebra,
I spend long hours staring out the window,
searching.
Category: Poetry, SNHU Creative Writing, SNHU online creative writing, SNHU Student