I ought to be doing something useful.
That is what study hall is for.
Pages, facts, dates, numbers,
all the good, proper things
that are meant to stack up
into a future.
Instead I am watching dust move
through the stripe of light
by the far window
and thinking how strange it is
that a person can feel busy in the head
and still be doing nothing anybody would count.
The girl in front of me chews her pencil.
Two boys keep passing a folded note.
Somebody coughs.
A chair drags.
The clock keeps making its one small argument.
I write my name three times
then make the letters larger,
then turn the R into something better
than an R has any need to be.
Maybe this is wasting time.
Maybe this is how a person
begins to notice
what kind of life
he might want.