We are writing notes on the American government.

That is to say, “we” as in

“ought to be ‘we’”

or “everyone in the room

except for me,”

or perhaps, more realistically,

“approximately 65%

of the students in the room,”

or something of the sort.

I’m quite sure we understand

the difference between

the executive

and legislative branches,

because we were discussing

last night’s presidential debates

before class began.

We know this, and you, the teacher, must know this,

and yet

curriculum is curriculum,

so we sit

for 1 period,

45 minutes,

2,700 seconds

every day,

just in case anyone doesn’t remember,

“L” is legislative, legislative legislation laws,

“J” is judicial, judicial judge judgement,

and the executive branch is the other one,

with the, well, President,

and such.

It is sixth hour,

fitting for this class period,

at least for me,

because I understand the United States government

clearly, and my brain needs some rest

before seventh hour:

Honors Algebra II

I am not upset,

I’m not even particularly bored:

this is an enjoyable class,

but

lunch just happened,

and

we were chatting and laughing and eating

just ten minutes ago,

and

we’re full and sleepy,

and,

it just,

um,

puts things in perspective.

I feel, well,

very existential

or something of the like

in sixth period,

I feel a  kind of unexpected recognition,

one which doesn’t seem to flow from anywhere in particular,

yet powerful nonetheless,

of what life can hold,

a gimmer, a glimpse,

during lunch,

and the understanding

of the pain

that will arise

in the future,

next hour… or next year or whenever it will be,

but I sit, in sixth period,

relaxed, at ease,

among friends, a good teacher,

a nice, bright classroom,

surrounded by calm,

where our only goal is to learn things

I already know.