Unanswered Question
You tower over the doorway,
wavy blonde hair catching the harsh fluorescent glare
of the hallway outside the prep room.
Everyone parts for you—
you carry that old, easy popularity
like a jacket you never have to zip against the cold.
I am sitting two desks down,
drowning in a sea of manila folders and printed articles,
our thirty-minute prep clock ticking down to zero.
They say extempers have to think on their feet,
have to look a judge in the eye and command a room,
turn global chaos into a neat seven-minute argument.
So why does a single digital inbox
leave me completely paralyzed?
I sent the words weeks ago.
A confession typed out in the dark margins of midnight,
shoved through the mail slot of your attention,
and you just walked past me this morning
with those sharp blue eyes,
looking right through me to the whiteboard behind my head.
You don't even have to offer a rebuttal.
Your silence is a twenty-four-point font,
screaming louder than any speech I have ever given.
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