Chapter 6
Mr. Korgy’s second class is a lesson on how great poets find the universal in the particular.
Spittle flies and his hands gesticulate, yet despite his passion, students don’t give a shit.
They play footsie, they study their manicures, they make sketches in their notebooks.
They don’t hear him and they don’t see him.
But I do. I see the sadness in his eyes.
And the deep desire for his words to resonate.
The desire to connect. Maybe that’s all passion is—sadness plus desire to connect.
I’ve been fantasizing about him all class. Fantasies I didn’t know I had about things I didn’t know I wanted. Perverted fantasies.
I fantasize that I pour his scent into a perfume bottle and spritz myself with it so that I can smell like him—pine and musk and the faintest whiff of BO.
I fantasize that I lift his shirt and touch his paunch. Watch it jiggle. Study the curly hairs on his belly and lick them straight.
I fantasize that I crouch down under his desk and unbuckle his pants, hearing the deviant jingle of his belt as they drop to the floor, then reach into his boxers and cup his wrinkly balls. Tickle them. Toy with them until they’re taut and hopeful again.
I’ve never wanted someone’s gross parts before. Only the good parts. The smooth parts, the clean ones, the buttoned and brushed and buckled ones. But with him, I want it all. Even the gross parts. Especially the gross parts.
“For your first assignment I want you to write a poem,” Mr. Korgy says, leaning on the edge of his desk. “A short, simple poem. It must start with the words ‘I am from.’ The rest is up to you.”
The bell rings.
“Due Thursday,” he says, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. His silver chunk of a wedding band hits the harsh fluorescent light and flashes in my eye.