Caren Krutsinger Poet Free verse

It Is That Kind of Room

I am sitting at a teacher’s desk.
Not my desk, a borrowed room.
Staring at an orange backpack with
A broken zipper and a cat emblem.

This desk is familiar. There is a torn paper
Plate, a half-eaten sucker, two paper clips, and 
Several stacks of ungraded papers dated
A couple of months ago on this desk.  

With a two-inch pencil, I dig out a small half
Broken daisy key chain from the rubble.
The edge of one paper has cocoa or pudding
Spilled on it. I am comfortable here. This
Mess is familiar.

Part of my day entails going class to
Class. When the teacher leaves, if I’m
Comfortable I might pry. I’m at a new desk
Now. A recently sanitized desk. I slowly
Pull the top drawer open. There are two
Crisply sharpened pencils. Nothing else.

I slam the drawer shut, uncomfortable
Poking around in this desk, knowing 
When the teacher comes back she will
Know if I have switched these pencils
Or even looked at them. It’s that kind
Of room.  There is nothing on the
desk top.

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