We're waiting to hear our numbers.
Later we brace ourselves for stings.
I saw mine smacking its thin lips,
Looking like a fat greedy fly.
All around I see perspiring bodies
That fear how they'll be graded
Under judging microscopes shortly.
There never is an essay portion,
Defending your brokenness.
This feels like a beauty contest,
No chance for old hearts and livers.
The red ink is most unforgiving:
Fix these and come back again,
Say the numbers looking very grim.
