for Allison Winston

Every day or most -- days I sit behind her 
(the alphabetical order of seventh grade seating charts)
watching her hair flutter in the turning pages 
of my notebook. A breeze of sketches 
in the margin from the daily tracings 
of ringlets and curls. The spiraling debris 
of pony tails running through my fingers.

And I am so often tempted to speak, to tell her
I rather like it down across her pale 
shoulders but say nothing. Nothing as she passes
in halls. Nothing as she dips into the girls bathroom.

The last thing I see is that familiar bald lady 
on the swinging door. Her distinctive triangle 
dress, her equally paired legs.
And the faceless guy across from her
who advances again but shyly retreats.

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Copyright © 2005 by Calaveras Station and the CSUS English Department.