music class

Hard eyes cross-cutting the room, 

raising the temperature of your blood with every measure of Bon Jovi 

when all you can see is his ghost hands.  

His cool hands.

His tattoo sinking under the black denim, rolled sleeve.

Was it a mistake of the past or 

are you still proud of that serpent on your arm?

"I'm not like you, sir," 

but my lips won't say it.

He's watching my top button shake as the veins in my neck make room for more air.

"I'm not as cool as my black nail polish, boy."

But he's always had a thing for girls with high collars.

You can tell.

You can see it in his cigarette lines,

but he doesn't smoke for the same reasons.

He's got a backstory

in the shape of a Latin sun

on his back.

He's got a game face:

straight lips

no smile

HTML embedded under his jaw.

And he's watching with those devils-in-the-details eyes that are everywhere but the teacher's mouth,

90 feet away.

"I'm not as cool as my eyeliner, boy,"

but he's always looked twice at the milk-white, sunless-skin girls,

who stand out against his favorite black.

He's always looked twice at the suburban-church girls,

who look like they just walked out of a long prayer.

He has a thing for long dresses and bad attitudes.

Wears one and takes off the other.

So I ignore him.

those lassoes in his eyes.

the story under that black denim.

nursery rhymes his mother used to read,

triggered by his favorite gun,

a pair of square glasses,

and those cross-cutting eyes that are 90 feet from mine

and more dangerous than the man 

who's wearing them.