Everyday, he walked in at 7 A.M. sharp
with his books in his hands and
his face pointed down towards his shoes.
He sat down and looked around at me, waiting.
Sometimes he leaned against me,
crossing his arms as if there were a sign there that says “go away.”
One day he came in at 6, took a knife from his pocket,
then looked to make sure I was the only one watching.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem