a different equation

your match teacher,
all ninety nine pounds of him,
thick glasses, and hair
parted to the side
with a swath of brylcreme
was a genius,
although stuck teaching
the likes of you at Kennedy high.
you remember his pocket
protector,
his short sleeved shirt,
powder blue, his brown shoes,
dulled from the shuffle of the day.
his tuna sandwich for lunch
always with the crust removed.
an orange soda
that stained his lips
and teeth.
he twisted the end
of his short mustache
while standing at the black
board
writing equations
that you had no clue
how to solve, but there
were others in the class
who could.
you were too busy staring
out the window at the girl's
gym class
as they ran with pony tails
swinging to and fro,
field hockey sticks held
in their slender arms.
it was different kind of equation
you were trying to solve.