Some are thinking. One twirls her hair, staring at the graph paper on her desk. He has his head down, forehead to paper, arms down and hands in his lap. That one yawns, stretching his heck with a grimace on his open mouth.
This one’s grey Vans are untied and he is sketching two lines on the graph paper, making them ultra dark, X and Y, as if the poem cares. The skinny boy, short brown hair sticking up at his crown, finished his graph poem in about two minutes, letting the orange Pilot pen clatter to the desk in case I hadn’t noticed he was finished.
My welder is done, his words on this graph evenly split between positive and negative until the end where they slope upwards and arrow toward the positive quadrant. The cattle baroness is writing and re-writing the word intervals on the Y-axis. Most of the poems are written in straight diagonal lines, but hers, the only sophomore, are curved and rolling all over the graph.