I admire my front row desk,
its tribute to Pythagoras, carved long
enough ago that the incisions’ edges bevel.
It brands me as a cheater, though,
and apart from the geometry, it’s scored
in shapes that, if I may correct,
are not from any human chest,
and names of boys and girls I’ve never met.
I wonder if you saw it,
hearts and theorem,
on your way to leave your note for Laura.
You’ve soldered her name to the board,
soldiered ahead of the jeering pack once
everyone knew. I suppose it’s admirable.
What I don’t understand is why
the ornament that caught your eye was one
you thought not all that bright,
the dimmest of our classroom constellations,
too dull to see your penmanship as yours.
And should you pin that damsel
down, and, grown, lift her past a threshold,
what will she do but engineer a way
to keep your consoles out of sight?
Game night only when she might arrange
her own encounters someplace else.