Sits at a desk
With paper-punched holes speckling the surrounding carpet.
A critic.
She stares grimly down
At a murdered rainforest
Writing in red
Across the answers she thinks are wrong.
Waits with her coffee
While we, her class, finish our tests,
Our minds a mushy mumble and our scantrons full of marks.
She glowers at the papers which prove
Another class does not live up to her standards.
About what is she thinking?
The sunlight may ask.
Perhaps her soap opera she is not taping today
Or the long week, almost a weekend.
The sunlight enters the room, clearing our minds and souls.
For it's 11:11, and time to make a wish.