He caresses a non-existent beard,
His black eyebrows poignant against the canvas
Of a bald head.

The girl pauses, Cheez-It frozen in mid-air,
Salt collecting microscopically on her lips.

With gesticulating motions, he tries to force knowledge
Where it is unwanted -
In one ear and out the other.
So she writes to numb the
Ebb and flow
Rise and fall
Push and pull
Of his thick French accent.

He flips manically through monstrous textbooks
Books filled with pictures of croissants
And horizontal stripes
And mimes
And all the other things that characterize France in its entity.

He searches and continues and goes on
IS THERE EVEN INTERNET IN FRANCE, MONSIEUR?!
Nonetheless, those who seek do not always find.
He learned that early on.

If only they would like him more,
Appreciate him more,
Respect him more,
STOP EATING IN MY CLASS YOU BUFFOONS!
He wants but their admiration, not the ceaseless argumentation
Of Cheeto-stained lips.

Pools of perspiration rendezvous at the precipice of his new bowtie,
A courtesy of mother, dear.
But he searches on, smacking aside the white flag,
Only to hear a gum-slapping,
“Why don’t cha just Google it?”