He bent over his desk,
sleeves rolled-up, though it’s winter.
He listened, wrote, and rolled his neck in tension.
A day in junior high, where the boys in the front turned and talked.
I watched from outside the classroom–unseen,
trying to memorize how his arms folded over the desk
the contour of his back
the shape of his head.
I wish I could tell you what a beautiful young man he was.