The Chair

The Chair

The chair next to the desk

is for bad kids

is uncomfortable

in more ways than one

she always wears perfume

and smells like Rexall Drug's

sample counter

her dry chapping pointer

always, always finding the error

before it can escape

her eye

you can't imagine

from the chair

what lunch will be like

or what game you'll be playing

at recess

you can never quite remember

what you told your friends

you'd be doing after school

and that's why

you're there

so you can't think of anything

but work and her sharp fingernail

stopping on your mistakes

all the time

her perfume burning

your nose

it settles into the creases

of your shirt

and your skin will still smell

like hers even when you leave

the chair

and you'll think you're sure

to become her

your breath will go sour

like coffee

and your hands will dry up like

books and worksheets

and you'll live on the sft sft sft

of fingers among papers

full of cursive loops

battling the clumsy block letters

you used to form your name

and then, you'll begin

to lick your dead thumb

to leave a smudge on the corner

of every page

you've frowned over

the chair is a wound

no bandage can cover

no iodine can heal

you are nestled up under the wing

of her sickness today

as she removes all signs

of the person you recognized

in the mirror over the sink

her thumb licked and planted smeared

across your forehead

as she moves on to the next

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