daughter of a high school math teacher: 

             Highway(80) is the derivative of coming from somewhere: 

                        y-double-prime, 

                        acceleration graph, 

                        straight shot home. 

              Take me back home. 

cab driver: 

                                                                                         Where?           

[the engine is restless now. sputtering out “get going,” 

“roll out” and “i’m not waiting forever.”] 

student at a math and science school: 

             I don’t know where, just take me. Please, just take me. 

cab driver: 

                                                         You don’t have an address?           

student at a math and science school failing math: 

             I don’t know it. 

cab driver: 

                     Can you describe it—where it is, what’s around it?           

student who’s failing math but still likes it: 

(chain rule) 

            My family has two defining features: talking and being mathematicians. 

            The not shutting up about algebra 3 and geometry and whatever else 

            is all hereditary. 

(average rate of change) 

             Momma cuts my hair off at the chin once a year. We wade in the small 

             space of her bathroom and I sit against the sink, head dipped back. She 

             splits my hair into two sections and cuts it bluntly just above the rubber 

             band. 

(like terms) 

             A house with 1—no, 2 siblings: a brother and sister. They have my red hair: 

             to the ears and shoulders, respectively. Both in the same house with 

             Momma and Daddy. They wait for me on the porch swing.

 

[neither of them know it but this place isn’t real.] 

[the driver types a hesitant “DNE” into the gps mounted on the dash.] 

[the driver knows it.]

someone who won’t shut up about something they barely know: 

(acceleration) 

            My heart really does start racing when I think of not getting back. 

                thump thump thump thump thump 

             I feel like I’m running barefoot down the crackled roads of my hometown. 

             I feel like everyone else with soles burning and ears pounding: 

                 thump thump thump thump thump 

(discontinuity) 

             In our driveway, we drew big hopscotch lines with pastel chalk until we 

             were on the cusp of the concrete and jumped over each number. One leg, 

             two, two, one again. Georgia did it faster than me but I’m sure she skipped 

             one. 

[so many people talk about the american dream but not the dreamer. 

the person trying to get back to a home that doesn’t exist 

deserves all the pity.] 

the dreamer: 

(continuity) 

            I know they will welcome me back home. 

cab driver: 

(undetermined) 

I can’t take you home.