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.