He would always sit ahead of us
In his citric orange T-shirt
Against the abandoned air-conditioned classrooms
Made by the Japanese and
Maintained by the miniature birds,
Who often get trapped in lecture-hall limbos.
I cannot write him
He’s a plant that does not germinate
Into wishful thinking
Of infatuated hearts, struck by poverty
A lack that begins to define you,
Your illegitimate parent.
But here’s a trick,
Chance a find
you have to look.
Glance upon his quivery brow
the rickety case of criss-crossed legs
That dares to announce
—If just for a second—
The same lack as you