You finger tap in rhythm with the pulse in my temple,
And your hum is the exact frequency of my migraine.
Child, do you really want to get rid of me?
At least you’ve got this teacher figured out
Down to the last Hot Tamale hiding place.
When I’m half a knot up from the end of my rope,
You catch my gaze and place your finger to your lips,
Then rest quiet hands on the table,
eyes sparkling even as you feign innocence.
I smile and climb back to the top of my rope.