The problem is, how many pennies to circle
for a pink eraser, or how many whistles for a quarter,
and I don’t know. I put my head down on my desk.
Now, we are watching a magenta-toned filmstrip

about wheat production in Russia, but I am
hiding my worksheet in the cage of my arms,
working on it at the wrong time

until someone sees it,
tells on me to Mrs. Habbedank.
Everything here is old, except math.
All the kids here are snotty tattletales.

How long will it be—how will I bear it—until
I circle some of them, some of them circle me?