The Thousand-Yard Stare

He comes late to my class, his grey shirt firm
On shoulders broad. He always looks displeased
At my requests he sneers: attendance sheets,
Get into groups, or study literary terms.
He's young and always twenty minutes late.
He always comes, my ever-silent foe.
His moussed up hair and muscles are a gate
Into a mind that I shall never know.
What are you thinking, surly hipster? Where
Does your beard point this morning? Why don't I
See you there chew your pen or check your phone
Under the table on the sly? You come
And sit there. It is plain to see
That you're a total mystery to me.