He’s got a scrubby look to him,
Unshaven and sad.

It doesn’t matter if sometimes
His accent pushes through
Or he slips back into Arabic
Because he doesn’t say much anyway,
Just stares out the window
As his mind flies off to the peaceful
Beaches of the Mediterranean,
Or to that Uyghur restaurant down by the bay

Or to the softness of her hair
The gentleness in her face
And how the ocean breeze
Felt on his skin.

“Aren’t you going to pass out a worksheet or something?”
A student asks finally.

He shrugs.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says,
“But I could if you’d like.”

They all shake their heads vigorously.

Another student raises their hand
And inquires about his absence policy.

“Absence is the only policy,”
He responds, before
He kicks his feet up
And reaches into his desk
Digging through workbooks
For a cigarette.