Ode to Fusco

I got up, I didn't want to.
I have a cold, a sore, throat, my muscles still hurt,
But I still got up.
And you weren't there.
We waited and waited, some sitting, some standing.
I knelt on my knees, praying to be cancelled.
You came and the door was locked.
I swear I saw some people walk away, but I stayed.
Not for you, but for:
Chopin
Robinson
Howells
James....the list continues

And of course the Manet you couldn't hang because the tape wouldn't unravel for you.
We're not eight anymore, standing between a poster is no longer fun.
But now neither is listening to you and your self-proclaimed boring lectures.
You stare at me, right into my sleepy eyes.
Why do I always have to sit in the front row?
Mick speaks and I can see the boredom in even your eyes.
I'm quick to answer the trivia:
en plein air
Ten Little Indians
Shot by his own men.

My only class of the day and I still got up.
The abandoned perfect paragraph you forgot about is still in my notebook,
And your indecipherable writing is all over my paper.
I'm nodding, I'm gone, my glasses are on my desk.
The clock hand continue their path and I am out of there.
See you on Thursday.