by Angelina Vita
Getting ready for math class is always a drag.
Collect the papers,
Create the sheets,
Answer the questions,
Use a calculator,
Bring a pencil, never a red pen…
That’s only for her.
Her. The professor.
Almost gray but more blonde.
She paints her lips red and purses them into a cherry apple circle.
I think she’s nice but she’s always late
And she teaches something we hate.
Or maybe I hate it.
She’s not a bad one
But she has a bad subject.
And then here is the “smart one.”
She can always argue because she is always right.
“I was taught this last semester”
But it isn’t even math so she couldn’t have been.
Math doesn’t teach you fantasy.
Math is the only subject that doesn’t lie
Maybe that’s why it’s so hard:
None of us can lie here and get away with it.
Then there’s me.
The most I can say for myself is I never forget to get dressed in the mornings
And I write poetry while they argue over a calculator
I wonder what they think of me?