The 8 A.M.

(poems go here) I feel alert, face freshly washed, hair in place. I feel pitted wood of a pencil between my fingers, and crisp notebook paper, begging for words. I feel the steaming espresso sliding down my throat. I feel my eyes burn under the fluorescent lights. I’m hungry, distracted by images of juicy cantaloupe and bronzed toast. I feel stiff, confined by the hard plastic of my seat, my neck knotted from bending over notes. But I am determined, adamant in my attentiveness. I’m thirsty, lips cracked by the confining classroom air. I feel my eyes on the clock, silently begging the hands to move. I’m sleepy, droning syllables blanketing me in words, and I feel the jerk of my head, refusing to fall. And finally, I feel the warm sun on my face and the weight of knowing that tomorrow I’ll have to try again.