But I haven’t studied
You should have told me
to wear pants in the classroom.
This conditioned air raises the hairs
I didn’t have time to shave. Where are
sets, freshly-painted cardboard rocks
Maybe I can act my way out of this scene
or maybe the writing will kill me. And now
the instructor looks at me suspiciously
so I return the glare with an upturned eyebrow and
dig furiously in my Patchwork Fossil purse for a pencil.
there is never a number 2. there is never a pointed
response when the answers are most needed
never a desk, hole, cave, dark enough to crawl beneath
and I realize, ten minutes too late that I’ve inadvertently
erased everything on the page.
staring blankly toward the door, the answer suddenly appears
beside the flat brown door across the hall, the red pull of the fire alarm