Test

I haven’t studied
and how to wear pants in the classroom
baffles me. Conditioned air eerily raises
hairs I didn’t have time to shave. Drama class
saves me. I’ll hide among the painted cardboard
rocks. Either I’ll act my way out of this scene or the writing
will kill me. Great. Now the instructor eyes me suspiciously.
I return the glare with an upturned eyebrow and dig furiously
for a number two pencil. My desk is a patchwork of fossils.
When I need a pointed response, the answer is always missing.
There’s never a hole dark enough to crawl in. Now it’s ten minutes
too late and I’ve accidentally erased everything on the page.
I stare blankly at the flat brown door, the fire alarm’s red pull.

* * *

This is a revision of a poem written line by line with members of the Poetry Collaborative Group at Read Write Poem. If You haven’t been to Read Write Poem yet, I encourage you to stop by. It’s where all the hot poetry action is happening.