I sit. The bench is warm,
The sun smiling upon it. The lime grass
Welcomes the class, cooped up like chickens.
My pages rustle, words streaming into my mind.
A boy sits,
On an adjacent bench.
He is from
The boys laugh and run, the football
Flying between them.
He stares longingly,
I bury my brain in the book,
Avoiding his gaze. (Why?)
This is me. I prefer books. (Why?)
Discomfort is present,
When I speak. (He needs a welcome)
My breath heaves. (Why?)
My legs tremble, and straighten.
I am standing.
Greeting him, his face glows,
A lamp clicking on,
A spark igniting,
(Why?) He is not different.
He reaches the boys. He is one of them.
There is no separation,
The sun smiles. The clouds meander. The whistle blows.